


The Damned

by cleighc



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, Inferi, Macabre Storytelling, Resurrection Stone, Talking To Dead People, Vampires, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-07-27 06:57:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16213826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cleighc/pseuds/cleighc
Summary: An accident with the Resurrection Stone has far-reaching consequences. In which the remnants of the war, the cursed and the damned, band together in some attempt to salvage what they can from the disappointment that is the Wizarding World post-war.





	1. The Beginning

**Chapter 1: The Beginning**

* * *

 

"Monsters don't care," Michael said. "The damned don't care, Harry. The only way to go beyond redemption is to choose to take yourself there. The only way to do it is to stop caring.” 

  
― Jim Butcher, [Skin Game](https://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/23811929)

* * *

 

Hermione wandered around the crushed rubble remains that constituted the Great Hall in an edgy daze, gripping bloody forearms tensely to her chest. Dust and ashes still swirled through the air, refusing to settle even after the battle had ended. Agitated, and paranoid that she was inhaling soot, her breathing was ragged and uneven.

She had expected some kind of relief to flood her senses from their victory, some manner of jubilation that might finally relax her overwrought nerves, but the tension in her limbs remained.

Instead, her head pounded, and there was a persistent ringing in her ears.

Instead, shocked and overwhelmed, she could only gaze at the utter destruction of her home-away-from-home and the rows of dead bodies in horror and disbelief.

She paced, trying to find some relief, but…

Maybe there was a reason she couldn’t relax. She refused to believe that this now familiar manifestation of anxiety was somehow permanent. She must be forgetting something. There must be some need she could fulfill, some means of distraction… But what? Harry was safe and preoccupied, talking to Professor McGonagall. Ron was with the rest of the Weasley hoard, trying to calm a distraught and slightly hysterical George. The dead had been collected, cleaned, and covered respectfully against the wall opposite, which Hermione tried desperately to avoid thinking about in too much detail. Even the Malfoy’s were accounted for, huddling in a corner and trying to look inconspicuous. Who was she….

Oh god, Professor Snape.

The realization hit her, and Hermione could feel herself pale just thinking about the bloody body sprawled out on the floor of the Shrieking Shack. While she hadn’t actually witnessed the man pass away, she very much doubted he was still alive. Not after losing so much blood. Still, learning about his true allegiance instigated a feeling of righteousness that encouraged her to retrieve his body. He was owed at least that much respect.

Hermione tried to convince herself that this was more about what he was due rather than her own pressing need to feel like she was accomplishing something constructive, and mostly succeeded.

She knew she had to hurry. By now, word of the man’s loyalties had probably spread after Harry’s very public announcement, and she wouldn’t be surprised if any lingering Death Eaters who had taken shelter in the Forbidden Forest felt the need to wreck retribution by desecrating his corpse. Or perhaps they would just take it before apparating deep in the forest to avoid capture by the recently arrived Ministry Aurors, and she would read about the defilement of his body in the morning paper.

A gruesome thought. Hermione felt the urgency of the situation increase, aided by a body and mind still thrumming with anxiety, as well as a deepening feeling of personal responsibility.

She stopped to take a deep breath. Tried to relax the grip she had on her forearms- This needed to be approached rationally.

Hermione wasn’t an idiot. She knew that attempting to cross the grounds-recently-turned-battlefield by herself was a fool’s errand. But she also knew that many Order members still held Severus Snape with enough contempt to be reluctant to help. After considering the harried and traumatized people around her, she saw two plausible options she could take. Drag an exhausted and magically vulnerable Harry into a still dangerous warzone- Harry, who had recently died, who hadn’t eaten or slept for 48 hours, who had just defeated the most powerful Dark Lord of their time and the one hope his followers had to a better tomorrow- that Harry. Or she could attempt to approach the Malfoys.

The Pureblood supremacists turned terrorists that supported and committed atrocious hate crimes. The boy who had teased and tormented her throughout her tenure at Hogwarts, and the parents who had instigated and encouraged that manner of behavior. The individuals who had never before given her a reason to think they might not curse her the moment her back was turned just for being what she was.

The family who, for reasons yet to be determined, helped them win the war. Who were also close enough to her former professor to name him the godfather of their child. Close enough to exchange an unbreakable vow. Close enough to ensure sacrifices were made in order to protect Draco’s soul. All of which spoke of at least some mutual degree of familiarity and loyalty.

Every part of Hermione’s intuition that had been cultivated during the war told her that it was a bad idea. She couldn’t trust that they wouldn’t use this as an opportunity to turn on her. Because they were the enemy.

Pure-blooded. Slytherin. Death Eaters.

It was practically synonymous at this point. Engrained.

But the cold numbness currently spreading throughout her body and mind overrode the ever-present heated tension, and made her feel curiously detached about their situation (shock, she mentally identified). And it was this empty, freeing state of mind that allowed her to consider not what could happen if she _did_ approach them, but what might happen if she _didn’t._

One more refusal to breach the gap. So that maybe, a couple of decades from now, their families would avoid each other at Platform 9 ¾, and subtly encourage their children to stay within their family’s House. And nothing would ever change- the prejudices would remain the same. Poorly concealed conflict still thrumming below the surface of every conversation and interaction.

Change had to start from somewhere. She wasn’t overly optimistic- this could mean nothing- but there was a slight chance it could start here.

Was that enough of a reason to try?

Maybe. Maybe not.

But Hermione refused to enable feuds to exist that were strong enough to bring about another war for her children to participate in. Not if she had anything to say about it.

Hermione realized she had been staring in their direction when Draco Malfoy’s slated grey eyes shot towards hers, and then narrowed in suspicion. His mouth curled downwards into a sneer as she kept staring. This exchange continued until she made her decision, and Draco seemed to recognize the sudden determined set of her mouth. His expression twisted into a curious mix of prideful trepidation as she approached the small family of blondes.

She was nervous. She resisted the impulse to tug on her curls, knowing that by now her hair was probably a damp, matted mess streaked with mud and coagulated blood. Similarly, she resisted the need to grasp her wand, not wanting to present herself as a threat. Instead she forced herself to contend with the fact that it was easily within reach should she need it.

She stopped several feet away, and saw all three of them narrow in on her face. Draco was the only one with any emotion on his face. Perhaps as a result of his youth, although Hermione suspected it was at least partially due to the familiarity that came with their shared past.  His parents just blinked at her, their expressions a tired brand of dispassionate.

She stopped herself from biting her lip, but couldn’t quite contain the overly tense knuckles. “Good evening.” Her voice sounded rougher than she had expected, but she pushed forward. “I was wondering if any of you would help me retrieve Professor Snape’s body.”

Lucius Malfoy was the first to speak. He somehow managed to look calm and collected, if a bit haughty, despite the inner turmoil she knew he must be experiencing given the precarious nature of his family’s future. “His… body?”

She nodded.

“You watched him die then?”

She frowned at his presumption. “Well, no. But unless he took a Draught of Living Death, I don’t see how he could have survived the blood loss.”

Lucius just made a humph noise as he stood that somehow managed to sound both derisive and judgmental. “It wouldn’t be the first time Severus nearly avoided death. Where is he?”

Hermione watched Narcissa and Draco rise with a bemused furrow in her brow, absentmindedly rubbing bloody flakes off her forearms. Their gazes remained focused on her face. “The Shrieking Shack.”

And then Lucius strode confidentially towards the doors leading out of the castle, and Hermione was left trying to make sense of his actions as his family accompanied him, trailing closely behind dirt-streaked billowing robes. He stopped, turning abruptly when he realized she hadn’t moved, and raised an aristocratic eyebrow. Hermione followed after a long moment of consideration, and used the extra time to grab spare bandages and a Blood Replenishing Potion that was miraculously unused at the makeshift first aid station. On the off chance that the man was right and her professor had somehow found a way to survive.

They marched together down the front lawn, and as they passed the Whomping Willow, Hermione realized the elder Malfoy intended to march all the way to Hogsmeade. She took another deep breath, attempting to find some of that Gryffindor courage that was supposedly her hallmark, and addressed the family. “Um, Mr. Malfoy? There is a secret passage nearby that leads directly to the shack. It would take less time, and probably provide a safer route.”

All three Malfoys spun to face her with varying degrees of suspicion and calculation. Eventually, Lucius nodded, apparently determining that the wisdom of traveling across the grounds unseen outweighed the slim possibility that she was either misinformed or leading them somewhere secluded in order to engage in some ill-conceived manner of vigilante justice.

Hermione was briefly thankful that his decision didn’t seem to be emotionally driven, and wondered what it would be like to have friends that were less impulsive. She led them to the tree, which was already rearing up and preparing to strike the bodies that dared to invade its space. Hermione wasted no time hitting the notch with a stick and crawling her way into the tunnel. She didn’t stop to ensure she was followed, but soon heard three pairs of footsteps lightly shuffling behind her on packed dirt as she lit her wand with a nonverbal _Lumos_.

She was somewhat expecting to hear grumbling or some audible exclaim of disdain, considering they were crouching through a confined, muddy tunnel outlined in roots and defiled with insects. Hardly the poshest of locations. But none of the Malfoys had anything to say, following steadily in silence just a few feet behind her. Close enough to make Hermione paranoid about their intentions, but besides gripping her wand that much tighter, she attempted to ignore her darker suspicions.

As soon as they entered the Shrieking Shack and came within view of Severus Snape, Lucius sprang into action. He didn’t bother attempting to check for a pulse by pressing his fingers through the congealing streams of blood running down the sallow man’s neck, which was Hermione’s first impulse. Instead he waved his wand in several complicated motions and muttered latin under his breath, and Hermione waited. After a couple of minutes, the blonde aristocrat smirked in triumph.

“Still alive. Albeit barely. Nagini just missed the carotid artery. Granger girl! No time to dawdle! I saw you brought bandages?”

Hermione wasted no time handing him the supplies she had nicked on her way out of the castle. And then remembered she should have more supplies in her beaded bag. Kneeling on the floor, with half of her arm rummaging inside of the dirty purse, she found what she was looking for. The pitiful remains of her homemade first-aid kit, which consisted of a bezoar, several bandages of varying lengths, some Pepper-Up potion, and a few precious drops of dittany.

She held up the bezoar to Lucius inquisitively. “Will this be able to negate the poisoning from Nagini’s venom?”

He looked at the object in her hand, then back at her for a moment, his gaze intense and focused. “It is worth a try. I wouldn’t be surprised if he already had some of her antivenom in his system already, but he needs to be stable before we attempt to move him. Cissy, hold him down?”

Narcissa wasted no time grabbing her professor’s shoulders and pinning him to the floor, apparently oblivious to the red blood that was steadily seeping into her robin egg blue robes from the contact.

Hermione took another deep breath, trying to keep her rising anxiety at bay, and used those seconds to look back at Draco. He was barely recognizable. A dirty teenager in bloodied robes that hung off a too-thin frame. He appeared… stupefied. Overwhelmed. Stressed. Afraid. She felt confident that she recognized the expression, because it was how Harry had looked for a majority of their time on the run. Recognizing that the youngest Malfoy might not be in the best place mentally to help, Hermione edged around Narcissa, laying the remains of her first-aid on the ground as she reached around the blonde woman in order to grasp Professor Snape’s head with gentle fingers.

Lucius nodded at her proactivity with absentminded approval, and motioned for Hermione to open Professor Snape’s mouth wide enough to administer the bezoar. He cast a quick spell to clear his windpipe of blood and venom, and gave a grimly satisfied nod after he heard a gasp of breath. Then he forced the stone into the man’s mouth.

 It was a challenge to get the bezoar down a throat that had a gaping, bleeding hole in it, but the esophagus and trachea were still apparently mostly intact, so all it took was a spell once it was past his tonsils. And then Lucius wasted no time replicating the procedure with the Blood-Replenishing potion. And then he was muttering healing incantations against her Professor’s neck, and Hermione watched with trepidation as the bite marks slowly decreased in size, the internal walls healing first. They didn’t disappear, but Lucius appeared satisfied enough to hand her several bandages, which she used to wrap around the sallow man’s neck.

They all stood up, preparing to leave. Hermione walked around the room gathering the remaining supplies, and Lucius cast a Levitation charm on Professor Snape’s unconscious body. They were about to turn towards the tunnel when the front door to the shack burst open and Avery Jr. appeared in the doorway. Hermione was closest to him, and he barely registered her presence before he shot off a spell. Hermione blocked it with a nonverbal _Protego_ , and then realized her mistake as the spell rebounded and the house they were in started to crumble around them.

Must have been a _Bombardo_ , or the like. Draco edged quickly towards the tunnel, only for a wall to come down in front of it. Their only exit was the front door, and Hermione barely had a chance to get her thoughts together before she shouted a spell.

“ _Diffindo_!”

There was more power behind the spell than she had expected, probably from the stress and terror of attempting to escape a collapsing house. As a result, Avery Sr. was cut cleanly in half, his entrails and internal organs visible and bleeding, strewn gruesomely across the ground. As a result, the man was dead in seconds, and the five of them were out of the house just as it toppled behind them.

The Malfoy family stared at Hermione and her victim for a solid thirty seconds with varying expressions as the curly-haired teenager stood shell-shocked. Through the strange sense of unreality that seemed to tug at her self, Hermione thought she caught surprise, stark appraisal, and some degree of disgust. Hermione herself wrinkled her nose as a putrid smell arose from the split intestines. And then it seemed everyone needed a moment to collect themselves from their near-death experience.

Lucius was the first to recover. He casually dismissed the man’s death and once more took charge, eager to lead them to the forest line. He gently pushed Narcissa beside him, keeping a firm hand on the small of her back protectively, and they managed a nonverbal conversation before she nodded. Her face hardened with determination, and her wandhand was steady as she led them back to the castle.

Hermione immediately understood his logic, and clasped onto this bit of rationality with no small amount of desperation. Lucius was levitating the Professor, so his wife would need to be responsible for defending them against threats. She also understood why they were next to the Forbidden Forest. Out of the open, more difficult to spot, especially considering they were traveling in so large a group. But she knew it was a gamble, as other Death Eaters probably had the same idea.

A gamble that didn’t pay off. They hadn’t been walking for more than ten minutes when Augustus Rookwood appeared in the tree line, wand waving before the group could properly react. Hermione jumped in front of the Malfoys, acting on instinct and years of conditioning from protecting Harry, and cast a _Protego Maximus_. She was thrown violently backwards for her efforts when their spells collided.

Pain.

She must have hit her head. The ringing in her ears increased, and everything else became muted. Colors blurred and settled into images like she was turning a kaleidoscope, and she found herself feeling along the forest floor with fingers that were reluctant to cooperate, desperately trying to secure her wand. Instead her right hand closed around something that flooded her body with magic, and Hermione carefully lifted the object a few inches so she could visually identify it. Through blurry vision she could make out… a rock? Some polished black stone shaped like a pyramid that glinted gold at just the right angle…

Hermione heard spells being cast and her fist clenched over the stone instinctively.

“ _Confringo_!”

“ _Avada Kedavra_!”

“ _Sectumsepra_!”

The three spells were shot off almost at once, and then Hermione was screaming in agony. The edges of the Confringo hit her hand and the odd polished rock exploded inside of it, along with her fingers and a great deal of her forearm. The pain shouldn’t have been worse than the Cruciatus, which played with every nerve in her entire body, yet somehow it was. The magic of the stone pulsed with an agonizing burn as the pieces of rock were seared into her flesh.

“Fuck!”

If she hadn’t been writhing in anguish, she might have wondered who muttered the expletive.

And then the screams stopped because she couldn’t breathe, and she could _just_ make out snippets of conversation in the background through her distress.

“Cissy, levitate the girl. Be sure to collect her missing fingers. Draco, levitate Augustus. On the off chance the bloody chit dies, I refuse to be implicated in her death.”

Hermione heard rustling. Then-

“Where’s her pinky?”

Draco sounded sick to his stomach. “I have it.”

“She’s not breathing... Lucius! She’s not breathing!”

Lucius let out a noise of aggravation, and then, “ _Respirare_!”

Something in her chest cleared, and she took deep breaths, greedy for air, ignoring the fact that her frame was shaking and her face was sticky and warm from blood and uncontrollable tears.

“To the castle!”

***

She must have blacked out from the pain, because the next thing she knew, she awoke to loud accusations in the form of an extremely irate Ron Weasley. “What did you do to her!”

Hermione slowly opened her eyes, trying to breathe through the pain, still feeling rather dissociative. Madame Pomfrey’s brow was furrowed in concentration, and she was muttering diagnostic spells over Hermione’s trembling frame. The older woman looked worried. That didn’t bode well. Hermione turned her head and saw the Malfoy family was being confronted rather aggressively by the Weasley family. And she decided on the off chance she didn’t live, they didn’t deserve to be persecuted for crimes they had not committed. It became apparent that the charge was being led by a grieving, upset, emotionally distraught Ronald, and she couldn’t trust him to act rationally.

“Not-” Her first attempt to speak was rather pathetic, but it at least drew their attention. She licked her lips, suddenly aware she was hyperventilating, and tried again. “N-not their fault.”

Ron argued with her. Of course he did. That seemed to be the only consistent part of their relationship. “What do you mean, it’s not their fault! They’re Death Eaters! And they brought you into the castle falling to bloody pieces…”

“Rookw-wood,” Hermione tried to say, and mostly succeeded. She saw the Malfoys turn towards her, and noted that their disposition seemed especially dispassionate standing next to the Weasleys, who were expressively displaying varying degrees of confusion, grief, anger, and exhaustion. Ron remained primarily indignant, but he was interrupted before he could speak again.

Madame Pomfrey appeared to be completely uninterested in the ongoing feud. She tutted, cast a few spells over her patient’s chest, and then addressed the Malfoy family, sounding almost distracted. “Do any of you know where these stone shards came from? I was able to reattach her fingers, but these pieces refuse to separate from her skin and are interfering with the healing process.”

Lucius tersely jerked his head in the negative, and the Matron frowned.

Harry spoke up from her bedside, and Hermione startled badly, not realizing he was there. “Let me see.”

Madame Pomfrey obliged to his slightly demanding tone with little fuss, and Hermione turned towards her best friend just in time to see his face pale dramatically. The drained and visibly weary matron made an educated guess. “You recognize it.”

He spoke slowly, as if reluctant to confirm her fate. “It is,” he stopped to correct himself, “ _was_ the Resurrection Stone.”

Ron gave the Boy-Who-Lived-Once-Again a disgruntled look. “You’re still on about those bloody Deathly Hallows, Harry? We never found the stone.”

Harry looked at his best friend with a frown. “How do you think I’m alive? Dumbledore had it hidden inside the snitch.”

Ron grinded his teeth, reliving the months of frustration that accumulated from their time on the run. “Are you fucking serious? We had it all along? Why didn’t he-”

The Matron interrupted him before he could continue his squabbling, turning to the bespectacled, dirt-streaked boy clinging to the side of Hermione’s bed with an exhausted grip. “You mean to tell me that Miss Granger has the broken pieces of some kind of mythical magical artifact melted into her skin?”

Harry frown deepened, and he looked almost betrayed. “It’s not a myth, Madame Pomphrey. I saw my parents. And Remus, and Sirius. They gave me the courage to die.”

The Matron just scrubbed her eyes with bloodied hands and gave an exhausted sigh. “I suppose it wouldn’t be the first extraordinary thing I have ever witnessed. Would someone fetch Minerva? Severus would probably have a better idea of what to do, but I doubt he’ll be conscious anytime soon.”

Professor McGonagall wasted no time coming up to Hermione’s bedside. “What is it Poppy?”

“According to Mr. Potter here, Miss Granger has pieces of the Resurrection Stone stuck to her skin. I don’t suppose you would have any ideas about how to remove the pieces?”

Her professor visibly started. “The Resurrection Stone? You mean… from the _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_?”

The Matron nodded tiredly. “That is what he said.”

Their professor turned to look at the still trembling Hermione and grim-faced Harry with obvious concern, noting the deep purple bruises under their eyes and the dried blood stuck to both of their heads. Hermione wondered if she was considering the likelihood that either of them were brain-damaged. “Unfortunately Poppy, broken magical artifacts are not something I have much experience in. I suggest we floo St. Mungos.”

Madame Pomfrey pursed her lips, before slowly nodding. “Very well. In the meantime, perhaps you can move Miss Granger up to the Hospital Wing? Along with Severus and Remus, and the students I have lined against the far wall over there? I’ll be along shortly.”

Harry started, and looked towards the older woman in confusion. “Remus? But he’s dead! I saw him through the stone!”

The Matron sighed. “Brain-dead, Mr. Potter, no doubt from his fall from the tower. But it’s standard procedure to wait until after the full moon before euthanizing individuals with lycanthropy. The unique nature of their condition complicates properly assessing their levels of consciousness.”

Harry looked cautiously hopeful. “You mean he could still be alive?”

“Time will tell, Mr. Potter,” the older woman stated in a no-nonsense manner, before she headed out of the Great Hall. The Weasley family carefully approached the space the Matron had left.

“Hermione, are you sure the Malfoys didn’t do something suspicious?” Ron asked as he walked up to her bedside, across from Harry.

She didn’t bother to hide her irritation, still in an incredible amount of pain. And realized with some relief that Madame Pomfrey must have done something, because it was much easier to speak compared to before. “They were doing me a favor by helping me retrieve Professor Snape. And then they brought me back to the castle after I was attacked. They have been more than helpful.”

She noted surprise on more than one Weasley face. And she wasn’t surprised to hear Arthur speak up with quiet concern, “Is that so?”

“Mmhm,” she ascertained, nodding almost absentmindedly as she looked over all of the Weasleys individually. And then she violently started when she found one more red-head in the bunch than she was expecting. Narrowing her focus, she noticed that the young man was not quite as solid as the rest. And when he stepped a few steps closer, just behind Ron, Hermione was able to see the extensive damage that had been dealt to his torso and limbs. A gaping hole in his chest exposed bits of bone, stringy remains of sinew and muscles, and dark pieces of organs oozing questionable bits of liquid down his frame. Even through the macabre presentation, the young man managed a mischievous smile in her direction that was somehow more devastating than the visible broken bones and pieces of brain.

“Fred.”

It was barely a whisper, stated through tears, and Hermione found herself shuffling back into Harry, away from Ron and the startling apparition.

“Hermione?” Ron sounded hurt.

“Hermione?” Fred echoed, sounding astonished. “You can see me?”

She wasn’t left a lot of time to consider how to handle confronting the dead twin in front of his still alive family, because there was soon the echo of a maniacal cackle bouncing off the walls just within her hearing. Hermione froze, turning white.

“No.” She thought the word to herself, trying to force the denial, unaware she was speaking out loud. “No, no, no, no, no….”

“Hermione?” Harry asked from close behind her, his voice soft with concern.

Hermione wanted to answer, wanted to seek comfort from the friend that had become her rock, especially in the last year, but… But then _she_ appeared, a head full of black riotous curls framing a sadistic, bloodied smile. The woman’s skeletal frame outlined in dusty, austere robes swept closer, and her cackle turned into a laugh that creaked like a rusty door hinge. Hermione looked back at Fred in desperation, hoping the woman wasn’t real, surely he couldn’t see her too… But he was looking directly at the approaching Bellatrix Lestrange with a snarl marring his still handsome face, and Hermione couldn’t stop from hyperventilating.

“Hermione!” Harry spoke louder, with more obvious concern. Professor McGonagall barely stopped him from reaching an arm out to touch her. “What is wrong with her, Professor?”

Suddenly dear Bella was so close, so so so so close, and Hermione’s body remembered how it felt the last time she spent any quality time with the she-devil. Or perhaps it was a panic attack gone awry. Either way, every muscle in Hermione’s body started to tense, and agony rippled from her injured arm down to her toes, and Hermione couldn’t stop screaming like she was on fire…

It hurt- it hurt it hurt it hurt it hurt, make it stop make it stop make it stop please please please please-

“Please!” She was crying, screeching through tears, and her eyes had fallen shut in fear, and she refused to open them, afraid of what she might see-

“ _Stupefy_!”

Her vision faded out.

* * *

To be continued. I have the next chapter written, I am just obsessive about editing. Expect it sometime tomorrow.

 


	2. Desperation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione attempts to get her bearings, and fails rather spectacularly.

**Chapter 2: Desperation**

* * *

 

"I do believe that most men live lives of quiet desperation. For despair, optimism is the only practical solution. Hope is practical. Because eliminate that and it's pretty scary. Hope at least gives you the option of living."

-Harry Nilsson

* * *

 

The week that followed was a literal nightmare. Every time Hermione opened her eyes from her bed in the Hospital Wing, she saw grisly, disturbing shades of people restless to approach her.

The closest approximation she could make to the adjustment in her life was seeing Thestrals for the first time, but it was so much more. Thestrals didn’t have the presence of mind to be upset about their existence, and weren't insistent that she either share that suffering or attempt to protect precious individuals the dead left behind.

A shredded Fred Weasley occasionally hovered in concern during her frequent breakdowns, but he didn’t seem to have the strength to handle his empathy, consumed with his own anxiety and grief. As a result, he spent a majority of his time in her presence out of his mind with worry about his twin. He wanted assurances that George wasn’t going to do anything drastic, and spent the week coercing her to make promises about checking up on the prankster on a semi-regular basis after she was released.

“I always thought if we went out, we’d go out together. In a brilliant fiery blaze, you know? And now… he needs someone. The family always pinned us together… ‘Fred and George’. They’ll have a hard time helping him without grieving for me. But you can do it, right? You’ve always been strong. And you didn’t treat us like the same person.”

She looked up at him in tears, wanting desperately to shout that she hadn’t exactly been close to either one of them, that he was idealizing her more than a little bit… But she was afraid to correct him, and his agitation grew.

“Promise! You need to look after him. You have to promise.”

She did so feeling overwhelmed and exhausted. “O-okay.”

“I trust you, ‘Mione.”

Hermione couldn’t stop from shivering. As good as his intentions were, that proclamation felt like a threat. A condemnation. She was scared. Worse, she thought he could tell, and guilt started to bubble under the surface.

Colin Creevy, covered in roped burns along his chest and biceps, was distressed and overly eager to hear updates about his little brother. After he discovered that Dennis had been the unwilling victim of one Fenris Greyback (and had the misfortune to survive), Colin spent hours hounding her for justice, demanding that she lead an expedition of hunters into the woods to bring his poor, victimized brother to justice.

“You’re Hermione Granger! If anyone could lead a cause, it’s you! Don’t you want to prevent other kids from being infected? Innocent children, whose lives are forever ruined at the hand of that… that fucking cannibalistic psychopathic murderer.” Colin growled out what he thought about the Death Eater werewolf with a sneer that looked entirely displaced on his young, cherubic face. “You could make a difference!”

“It’s not that simple, Collin. The Ministry is in shambles. Who would I lead? And Greyback isn’t exactly the easiest individual to locate.”

She had tried to reason with him at first. Her attempts were for naught. She slowly began to realize that these shades were not simply a manifestation of a person’s soul. Rather a limited reproduction consumed with certain fixations. She was also disturbed to realize that they became increasingly unwell the longer they were in her presence.

“I never took you for a coward. There are still members of the D.A. that are alive, right? And I’m sure if anyone could find him, it would be you.”

“Colin-”

“No! Admit it Hermione! This isn’t about limited resources! This is about you! So distracted with your own problems that you don’t have the patience to help those who need it!”

“It is not that simple!”

“Why isn’t it? The Final Battle has ended. Maybe you feel like it’s over. That you can stop fighting. But the problems of the world don’t rest, Hermione!”

She was crying by this point. “And why can’t I rest! You don’t think I deserve it?! Even a few weeks to get my bearings?! Some time to finish my education?!"

Colin gave her a look filled with disappointment and animosity, and it crushed something inside Hermione’s chest. “I had no idea you were so selfish. I suppose if getting your N.E.W.T.S. is important enough to sacrifice the innocent children that might get in his way… by all means.”

He disappeared, and guilt inside her grew. He never reappeared, which was its own brand of torment.

Thorfinn Rowle, who had the entire backside of his skull blown off, discovered quickly that he couldn’t actually choke her to death, as his pale fingers slide right through her slim throat. So instead he took up stalking her, leaning up against the Hospital Wing wall just within reach. He would stare at her in anger and blatant disgust for hours, blatantly lurking.

Apparently he had nothing better to do. Empowered with the knowledge that he couldn’t actually physically hurt her, Hermione did her best to ignore him. Her attempts at being cavalier about the situation only lasted a few days though- she quickly discovered that the constant attention was more than slightly unnerving.

The dismembered Carrow siblings quarreled incessantly, but found a sense of comradery and assuagement in their untimely demise by taunting Hermione with slurs and scaring her half to death. Their favorite prank thus far was to place bloody pieces of their broken bodies in her bed while she was still asleep. Their cackles when she awoke screaming echoed off the walls in a way that reminded Hermione of special effects featured in muggle horror films.

“Hahaha, did you see her face! Stupid Mudblood.”

“Who knew she had such a weak stomach!”

“It’s like she’s never seen a dead body before. Or parts of one. Such a sheltered life, don’t you think Alecto?”

“That’s why she’s so weak, brother.”

“Her screams are plenty strong though.”

They looked at each other and descended into maniacal giggles.

Nymphadora Tonks was somehow worse. She was inconsolable. A sobbing mess of torn robes and muddy purple locks, who confessed to being guilt-ridden about leaving her baby boy. Hermione couldn’t stop cringing, listening to her wail about how she wasn’t supposed to be at Hogwarts during the battle to begin with, how she hadn’t wanted to leave Remus to fight alone, and how the thought of poor little Teddy being orphaned broke her to pieces…

“M-my mother’s health h-hasn’t been the best lately… what will happen to p-poor Teddy if she goes?”

“You know Harry and I will look after him-”

“B-but you’re so young! You n-need to live your own lives…”

“Tonks, you and Professor Lupin did so much to help. It’s the least we could do.”

“Oh, R-remus! Why did he have to g-go too… You haven’t seen him have you?”

She hadn’t, which quickly prompted another crying fit.

It was safe to say that Hermione wasn’t handling the adjustment in her life well. Her muscles were so tense she had a hard time stopping herself from clenching her jaw and grinding her teeth. As a result, she suffered from a persistent tension headache. Her nerves were completely shot, which caused her to startle constantly and led to the confiscation of her wand after a poorly-aimed reflexive spell nearly hit a visiting healer. She had daily panic attacks, which seemed to be concentrated bits of painful, terror-induced hyperventilation that resulted in Hermione curled in her bed as a shaking, crying, hysterical mess. Her throat burned from the frequency and force of her screams. And she was nearly convinced she had developed akathesia, considering she found it nearly impossible to stop herself from bouncing her limbs or rocking in place.

Madam Pomfrey originally brought two Healers from St. Mungos that specialized in spell damage. After a couple of days of observation, however, they left and a couple of mind healers were brought in their place. The Matron looked grim at the change in staff, but did little to dissuade them.

Hermione heard these new healers talking about her condition after a day of observation, surprisingly flippant about things like patient confidentiality. She was reasonably sure it was because they thought she had lost her mind and wouldn’t be able to properly comprehend what they were saying. None of them believed that the Resurrection Stone actually existed, but torture-induced insanity or mental instability due to over-exposure to Dark Magic seemed like a ready option for them.

Deriving humor from the situation, the Carrow twins had taken to whispering the healer’s observations and prognosis to her in mocking murmurs too close to her ear as she was attempting to sleep.

“ _Clear signs of paranoia and hyper-vigilantism. Are we scaring you, Granger?”_

“ _Consistent eye contact and muttered responses to certain empty corners of the rooms could potentially demonstrate the presence of visual and auditory hallucinations. Isn’t it a shame that none of them can see us? Poor little Mudblood, all alone in this madness…”_

“ _Delirium present, demonstrated by persistent restless mannerisms, incoherent attempts at communication, and occasional bursts of aggression. Such a bad girl, Granger, acting out like that_. _We only wanted a bit of fun-_ ”

“ _Frequent panic attacks and observed body language reveal high levels of anxiety_. _And they’re right, aren’t they? So tense you look like you’re about to snap- Please, Granger, don’t hold back on our account…_ ”

“ _Tentative diagnosis include Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, as well as Paranoid Schizophrenia_. _Hear that? They think you’re crazy. And you are, aren’t you? A filthy crazy bitch only good for one thing. It’s a shame you’re too ugly to warrant any interest from people of distinction…”_

“ _We recommend adopting a heavy potion regimen, and possible relocation to St. Mungo’s Janus Thickey Ward as soon as space becomes available… Hear that Mudblood? They’re going to lock you up. Perhaps justice really does exist.”_

Hermione gritted her teeth and tried to block the noise. Inside, her terror and desperation grew.

Too exhausted and afraid to think of running, she was frantic for some manner of consolation, but had to live with the fact that she was driving her friends away. Ron, who she had considered a serious potential paramour following their kiss during the Final Battle, could only handle two visits before he stopped coming by. She hadn’t even been screaming or muttering or anything overtly insane- she was just overly tense, shaking from nerves, and crying in exhaustion. But apparently the vulnerability and helplessness that somehow projected from her face was too much for him to handle.

Harry was a tad hardier. He even stayed through a screaming fit, when she woke covered in a pool of blood and rotting limbs. He observed her obvious terror and exhaustion through tears, and had to physically grip the railings on the side of her bed to prevent from reaching out (still on strict orders not to touch her, considering the magic on her arm was still rogue). Hermione could easily read the guilt and grief flooding his features, and couldn’t stop similar feelings and a great deal of self-pity swarm like bees in her chest. They cried together. Ginny later arrived and drug the poor boy away, and she hadn’t seen him since.

Her most persistent visitors were Neville and Luna. Neville, who had extensive experience handling patients near and dear to his heart who were sometimes absent of mind and engaged in hysterical fits. He was incredibly indulgent, but that almost made it worse. It made her feel like she was actually insane.

Luna was… Luna. She looked like she could actually see the lurking Rowle, nodding a head of acknowledgment in the direction of his corner, and then spoke for a half an hour about some imaginary creature capable of devouring lingering souls. And while Hermione was more than thankful for the brief reprieve, as even the Death Eater’s edged around Lovegood warily, she wasn’t close enough to the girl to derive any real reassurance from her presence.

This escalating nightmarish experience culminated on the full moon. May 11th, a week and a half after the Final Battle. To that point, she had not seen much of Bellatrix, but she was hardly the luckiest individual.

Hermione woke sometime in the evening, and couldn’t stop shuddering. There was blood everywhere, and the dead surrounded her bed, congregating around a smirking Bella. She twirled a translucent knife in the air idly, smiling maliciously at the space in front of her, before she gradually broke down in that disturbing, creaking chortle that reminded Hermione of a hyena circling its prey.

“Pretty, little Mudblood. How kind are the fates to give us so much extra time together.”

Hermione did her best to ignore them. She clenched her fists, bit down on her tongue, and stared defiantly at the empty space directly in front of her. They couldn’t hurt her, she reminded herself desperately. They couldn’t.

“The Carrows tell me the healers intend to send you to the loony bin. I couldn’t be prouder. Still, I think they could use a practicum in what it means to truly terrorize someone. You’ll help me demonstrate, right? According to my nephew, you were a little fucking brown-noser in school. So you’ll agree, right? For-,” the crazy bitch paused long enough to laugh hysterically, “educational purposes.”

Breathe, Hermione, just breathe-

Bellatrix gave a wide, sick smile, before she brought the translucent knife down on Hermione’s scarred forearm, and Hermione couldn’t stop from jerking harshly and audibly hissing from the memory of pain. Her reaction caused all of the Death Eater’s circling her bed to start laughing, and Hermione found herself hyperventilating again, and-

She scrambled off the bed before she even realized it, and scampered to the other side of the Hospital Wing, trying to avoid the specters. A sudden howl of grief and pain by a bed made her stumble sideways, away from the noise, and before she knew it she was swaying in front of the sight of Remus’ shade standing awkwardly over his own body. “Hermione-,” he started to say in obvious concern, but was interrupted by a war cry that sounded like a scream. They both looked up to see Bella charging in their direction, grinning, and Hermione fell back through Remus’ translucent form onto his still, barely breathing body. She registered the warm flesh of his forearm under her injured hand.

There was a flash of light, and an odd hum of magic, and Hermione watched with wide eyes as Remus the shade disappeared into his body. The man on the bed gave a shuddering breath, and his eyes shot open. Soft brown stared at the ceiling upset and incredulous. Only moments passed, however, before they started to golden, and Hermione barely had time to shudder in remembered fear before the bones in Lupin’s body snapped and reformed, and hair started to grown on the skin visible around his hospital robe.

Hermione didn’t bother to stick around to watch the full transformation take place. She dashed towards the Hospital Wing door, frantically trying to find a way out. The door wouldn’t open. She wasn’t surprised, considering the conclusions the visiting healers had made of her mental state, but her panic was growing, and she wasted no time running to the Matron’s office.

It only took several seconds of pounding on the door before Madame Pomfrey opened the door, looking tired and harassed. “Miss Granger-,” she started to say, but Hermione interrupted her urgently.

“Werewolf,” she breathed out, afraid and out of breath.

The woman’s eyes widened in fear, before she turned to a nearby bed hidden behind privacy curtains. “Severus,” she whispered in concern.

Hermione didn’t stop to think. She ran, tore open the curtains, and tugged on the occupied bed, thanking Merlin and Morgana that hospital beds had wheels. Another desperate tug increased the momentum enough she could turn it, and then she was sprinting towards the doorway that led to the Matron’s office. Madame Pomfrey had spent the minute productively pushing aside furniture. As Hermione approached the older woman opened the door far enough to allow the hospital bed to pass through.

The Matron grabbed the headboard of the bed and pulled, but Hermione was preoccupied for a moment watching her Professor’s eyes flutter open in confusion. He blinked, exhausted and perturbed, then watched with a furrowed brow as Hermione shrieked and threw herself into the wall as Rowle once again attempted to lunge for her neck.

She heard Bella croak out a tune, twirling her knife as she casually strutted towards them. The dead witch was soon drowned out by the heavy growling and steady steps of a large, transformed werewolf.

Hermione avoided another lunge from a cackling Death Eater, and ended up bracing herself at the edge of her Professor’s bed, the tips of her knuckles barely brushing his hand. He had gone a deathly pale, staring into the space in front of him in growing horror.

“Miss Granger!” Madame Pomfrey reprimanded in an urgent whisper. Hermione mumbled an apology and did her best to ignore the Carrow twins on either side of her, squeezing her eyes shut desperately as she scrambled to grip the footboard and push the bed, struggling to focus on the real threat in this scenario.

The scene wouldn’t have been out of place in a horror movie. They got the bed in the office in the nick of time, and the Matron had barely flicked her wand to shut and lock the door before the heavy thud of a body crashed into it. And then once again. On the third bodily throw, all of the occupants in the small space were disturbed to see cracks forming in the walls surrounding the doorframe.

Madame Pomfrey shot into action. She hurriedly slung a bag of medical supplies over one shoulder, and grabbed a teacup that was resting at the edge of the counter. She pointed her wand at the object, stating, “ _Portus_.”

Hermione, meanwhile, had spent the minute scanning the Matron’s office, and immediately noticed a group of wands resting innocuously on the desk. She lunged before the older woman could stop her, grabbing a familiar vine and ebony, just before her fingertip touched the edge of the cup and the hastily-made portkey transported them away.

Her mind spinning at the rush of events and the abrupt method of transportation, Hermione struggled to form a plan. She had just enough time to decide that she would rather not be dragged and sedated in St. Mungos before Madame Pomfrey attempted to restrain her. Hermione successfully struggled away from her grip and paused just long enough to throw the ebony wand at the conscious, confused, ailing man before she apparated away.

***

Hermione ignored the familiar, painful tug in her abdomen and brush of nausea that told her she was hungry, staring resolutely at the text in front of her. Grimmauld Place had been abandoned for almost a year, and in the two weeks she had been here she had already cleaned out any remaining nonperishables or perishables unaffected by the disrupted stasis charms.

But she didn't dare leave the residence to search for food. Not only were a number of people actively searching for her, but her only foray into the open had caused quite an emotional shock. She couldn’t help but notice the startling number of grotesque, dead individuals wandering aimlessly, until they became aware she could see them. Then she felt hunted.

Far better to ignore a delusional, ranting Walburga Black and devour the Black library in search of a text that would be able to help her out with her situation. It had become increasingly obvious in the last week that Hermione wouldn’t be able to continue with her life until she had removed the Resurrection Stone somehow. Harry and Luna seemed to be the only people who believed that she wasn’t schizophrenic, and while she was grateful he let her use his house as a temporary refuge, she longed to get on with her life. Hopefully reconnect with Ron and the rest of the Weasleys, and start work at the Ministry.

Unfortunately, this was easier said than done. She had already skimmed most of the books even remotely related to her situation, and had found nothing to address her concerns. Well, that wasn’t entirely true- there were quite a few books about magical artifacts, but none that addressed the possibility of retaining magical properties after the object had been destroyed. Or the possibility of somehow combining those properties with a magical core without a conduit, as this typically occurred following some sort of ritual or some kind of blood sacrifice. And as far as she was aware, nothing like that had occurred in her circumstance.

There was even less information on how to separate the influence on her magic. The problem laid primarily with her inability to identify the problem. Could this be considered a curse? A taint? A magical augmentation? A disruption to her soul?

She was inclined to believe the latter. Her magic actually felt different- there was a deeper quality to it, as if the density of her energy had changed. Heavier, deeper, it was more difficult to draw out her power, but when she did the effect was noticeable. Like waves that built over miles, the impact was devastating and difficult to control.

But how was she supposed to address this change? She knew that emotions and intention played an important part in the soul’s purity- otherwise Unforgiveables wouldn’t be considered unforgiveable, and Riddle wouldn’t have been technically able to mend the broken pieces of his soul by feeling remorse for his victims. Could she undergo some sort cleansing rite that would enforce her positive emotions? A purity ritual, or some isolated retreat she could spend in nature attempting to “find herself”?

Hermione headed back to the library, purposely ignoring an older man who looked a great deal like Sirius (and who had apparently died a rather bloody death), and dug through a pile of books stacked on an end table. And then stopped, staring at a title, as her mind whirled with an idea.

She quickly skimmed _The Bonds That Bind Us_ , narrowing in on several passages that were rapidly feeding into a theory that she thought might actually be able to help her. She ignored the logical criticisms biting at the back of her brain, questioning whether or not this was built on delusions. Lack of sleep, lack of food, and repeated exposure to horror and terror were making her desperate enough to justify anything that looked even remotely like a solution.

And the Soulmate Bond had potential. Apparently, if you were in the position to find your soulmate, and under the right circumstances (apparently engaging in sacrifices of purity in a binding ritual, she assumed the writers were referring to virginity), you could actually cleanse each other’s souls. An attached passage explained the reasoning; as soulmates actually shared a soul, their joining usually signified the “equal exchange of life’s burdens”. Hermione interpreted this to mean you shared whatever harm you experienced to your soul or magical core. But in the instance of a ritual, the act of the sacrifice demonstrated the appropriate emotions that allowed the soul the heal.

Which would be perfect. Assuming that the damage to her soul was the source of her connection to the Resurrection Stone.

It took a far darker book to locate a spell that would help Hermione find her soulmate. _Magicis Vincula_ detailed a small ritual that should send for your other half, although the translation detailing their method of arrival was sketchy at best. And it would not be difficult to arrange- a particular configuration of runes on the floor outlined in stone and water, and a small offering of blood.

The delusional part of her plan came from the assumption that her soulmate would be still living, and willing to establish an arrangement in order to complete the ritual. She knew she was risking a lot- there was every chance her soulmate was much older than her, or already in an established relationship (Hermione tried to ignore the possibility that they were already married), or perhaps from a foreign country and unable to speak English. But she figured it was worth the risk, if only to establish whether or not this was even an option she could consider pursuing.

Hermione wasted no time getting together the required materials, and hunted in the shelves for a silver knife. Her search was briefly interrupted by a fuming Walburga, but Hermione was getting steadily better at ignoring the attempts made by irate shades to strangle her. She likewise ignored the racist accusations and screams, having infinitely more practice in that regard because of a certain portrait, and scurried back to the library.

Hermione paused in front of her ritual markings, and forcibly pushed away any remaining reservations. She gathered her bearings, and took a deep breath. Slashed the knife against her palm.

“ _Voco autem custos animam meam_.”

A sound like a thunderclap rang through the room, and the shelves started shaking. Magical pulses stretched the very air around her, and the smell of ozone permeated the enclosed space. Hermione felt the tension grow steadily tighter and was strongly reminded of how she felt during a panic attack- like her body was trying to squeeze together and be ripped apart at the same time.

She took another deep breath, just in time to see a swirl of light dance several feet away.

The light darkened. And the wind controlling the swirl sped up, until this affected corner of the library was barely visible through a pulsing contortion of visible light.

It took minutes for the tension to break, which it did in a visible wave of light and sound. And then Hermione was left staring at a collapsed body as the light dissipated.  

She screamed.

Because the man in front of her wasn’t old, or married, or foreign. He was dead. His form was barely held together in stripped pieces of decaying flesh, although his eyes glowed with the unnatural magical interference of a possessed corpse.

So not just dead then. An inferi.

An inferi who watched her with curiosity, tilting his fiendish features in a bizarrely innocent fashion as remaining pieces of sinew holding rotting muscles to his skull gleamed an unholy white.

“You called?” The voice that rasped out of the displaced, decomposing jaw was unnaturally clear and aristocratic.

She could feel the bond. The magic straining between them, wanting to be joined, wanting to be closer.

Hermione attempted to breathe through the shock, but only succeeded in hyperventilating in a panic. She barely remembered feeling the crescent-lined gouges in her palms from her fingernails and dimly remember Severus Snape’s gruesome posters that were hung in his Defense classroom before the world blacked out.

* * *

To be continued...

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the plot is a little more clear? Although perhaps not... Please let me know what you think. Thank you for reading.


	3. Confrontation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione gets to know an inferi.

**Chapter 3: Confrontation**

* * *

 

We all have a dark side. Most of us go through life avoiding direct confrontation with that aspect of ourselves, which I call the shadow self. There's a reason why. It carries a great deal of energy.

-Lorraine Toussaint

* * *

 

It was only due to repeated exposure to the Carrow’s unique brand of pranks that prevented Hermione from screaming when she awoke to find that nasty, decaying skeletal face hovering a few inches above her own. As it was, she startled badly and threw herself backwards a few feet in horror.

The inferi’s gaze was steady, and the tone of his rebuke sarcastic. “The princess is finally awake.”

Hermione didn’t bother to reply, frowning at the crouching possessed corpse as she mentally reviewed everything she had read in the passage outlining the ritual. As far as she knew, it wasn’t capable of instigating necromancy. It stated quite clearly that only individuals ‘in the same lifetime’ would be affected. So then, “Why are you here?”

The rotting figure sneered. An act which pulled on the remaining odd pieces of flesh around his mouth, and presented a bloody, but oddly straight set of teeth. “The temerity of a woman asking me that after calling me here, in my ancestral home, is unbelievable.”

“Your…” Hermione trailed off, glancing at the library, and then back at him with a furrowed brow for a several seconds before it finally hit her. “Regulus Black.”

“Indeed.” And then he paused, observing her surprise and confusion for a couple of beats before his head tilted again in consideration. “You were unaware?”

Hermione frowned, disliking the presumption that she _should_ be aware. He seemed to understand the manner of spell that brought him here, but…

The muscles in his face shifted again. “You conducted a summoning ritual without being aware of who or what you were summoning?” He looked perturbed at the thought. “Are you an idiot?”

Or maybe he had no idea how he was summoned…

“It wasn’t that kind of spell.”

His gaze was intense.  “I was dead. I remember that much. And as far as I know, no one can _accidentally_ perform necromantic rituals-”

She was quick to interrupt him. “It was not a necromantic ritual, it-”

“Then how am I here?”

Hermione scowled at him, and gestured impertinently at her reading material. “It _was_ a summoning ritual. But the purpose was to summon your soulmate, not raise the dead.”

He stared at her like he was absolutely convinced there was nothing but air between her ears. “Soulmate?” And then his expression twisted into that nasty sneer favored by judgmental Slytherins as he looked her up and down. “Ridiculous.”

She sneered back at him indignantly. “And yet, here we are.”

“I’m not your soulmate, little girl. You obviously botched up the ritual-”

“I did not! I followed the text exactly!”

The muscles where his right brow should be raised slightly, which was rather disturbing to witness when the individual was without skin and hair. “And did the passage mention anything about summoning your soulmate if they were already deceased?”

“Of course not!”

“Then you botched the ritual.”

Hermione let out a noise of aggravation a few seconds before an irritated Walburga floated through the library doors, looking down her noise pointedly at the occupants. “What is all this racket!”

Hermione sent the older woman a nasty look, her tolerance levels for aggravation already maxed out due to lack of food and sleep. “None of your business, _Walburga_. Now if you would kindly leave-”

The woman gasped indignantly. “Well, I never! In my own home, to be addressed so informally by such filth! Leave! Dirty Mudblood, running her hands all over our precious books, tainting our home with her vulgarity-”

“This is not your home, and these are not your books. You are dead, Walburga Black, and I can do as I please.”

The woman’s face scrunched up unpleasantly. “Well, you are hardly alive are you? Wasting away to nothing, experimenting with the Dark Arts in _my_ library. I doubt you’ll survive much longer with your-”

“I have not been experimenting with the Dark Arts-”

The incorporeal woman snorted. “You think I am unable to recognize an inferi when I see one?”

Regulus turned towards them both in bewilderment. “An inferi?” He looked down at his rotting limbs in consternation. “I thought I was just a corpse…” Then he turned towards Hermione with accusing eyes. “What did you do?”

Walburga clearly recognized the timbre of his voice, as her eyes widened in horrified astonishment. “Regulus?”

“Hello, mother.”

And then they were both staring her down in hateful disdain.

Hermione could feel the anxiety of the situation begin to creep up the joints in her body, settling restlessly in all of her nooks and crannies until it was almost impossible to resist twitching. She took a deep breath, resisting as a need for hyperventilation threatened to pull her under. “I had nothing to do with your state as an inferi. That was Tom Riddle’s doing.”

Walburga was accusing. “But you have something to do with him being self-aware? What have you been doing up here?” The woman quickly glanced through the many titles open on the nearby table. “Magical bonds- were you attempting to force some kind of bond with him? Obtain the Black name, and then kill him before anyone could realize what you were doing?”

“No!”

“Liar! But what more could we expect from one of _your_ _kind_ …”

Hermione could feel frustrated tears form at the corners of her eyes as she shot out of her seat. She marched over to find the text she had been using, and slammed it down in front of them. Then she slid the sleeve of her jumper up her arm and showed them the melted flesh and pieces of stone that wrapped from her palm out around her wrist in magically-induced swirls. “I assume you both know the story of the Three Brothers, and the Deathly Hallows?”

They continued to stare, and Hermione huffed at their nonparticipation as she continued. “I had an accident after the battle at Hogwarts. So now I have pieces of the Resurrection Stone seared into my hand. Which should be evident simply for the fact that you and I can hold a conversation, _Walburga_. Or can many witches and wizards speak to the dead that aren’t fully manifested ghosts?”

The older woman pursed her lips and her eyes narrowed.

Hermione continued. “I have been researching ways to detach the pieces so I can live my life without being surrounded by living corpses, and I thought the soulmate bond might have some potential. So I conducted the _Anima producat vinctum_ ritual.”

Walburga looked back and forth between the emaciated, tired-looking young woman with flyaway curls, and the rotting shell of her youngest son. “Impossible.”

Hermione’s lips curled back into a defensive snarl. “So I’ve heard.”

Hermione waited for Regulus to say something in support of his mother, but he was looking curiously at her burnt hand. “Perhaps the magic of the stone disrupted the ritual and interfered with the end result? Which hand did you cut when you made the blood sacrifice?”

Hermione could feel her eyes narrow in thought. “This one.” The other one still radiated pain half the day, the remnants of the cursed carvings in her forearm now a dull throb that extended down her arm.

Walburga interrupted their thought processes, staunchly stating. “There is no way you are soulmates.”

Hermione could feel the bond, the pull, between them even now, and felt compelled to argue. “The ritual would state otherwise.”

Regulus humphed. “A botched ritual…”

Hermione raised a brow. “You can’t feel it?”

He said nothing, and Hermione was disturbed to realize that the omission actually hurt to some extent.

When he finally spoke, his words were hesitant. “We could simply cast a spell to determine the nature of our bond.”

It was a pragmatic approach that Hermione could deeply appreciate. “And where can we find such a spell?”

The bloody, sinewy body wasted no time gliding over to the Dark Arts section in the Black library, and then stilled. He took a few minutes to review the visible titles before he turned, face marred in an ugly look of angered disgruntlement. “What happened to my library?”

“Purged.”

Hermione knew more than a few texts were removed by the Order before they had begun to occupy it the summer before her fifth year. For their safety. It had rankled Hermione then, and it rankled her now.

The bared muscles on Regulus’ face pulled further down. “Sirius, no doubt.” He spat out like his brother’s name was something profane. Walburga nodded in agreement, appearing quite cross.

Hermione shook her head in disagreement. She doubted Sirius had the presence of mind to remove potentially harmful literature without the Weasley matriarch nagging in his ear. “My bet’s on Molly Weasley.”

Regulus paused. “Weasley?”

Walburga’s lips curled in disgust. “Oh, don’t get me started on that infuriating blood-traitor _mucking_ around my home…”

Regulus ignored his mother. “But why was she here?”

Hermione let out a large sigh, trying to dispel some of the anxiety in her shoulders and limbs, and sat down tiredly in one of the nearby armchairs. “Sirius offered this house to act as Headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix during the Second Wizarding War.”

Another pause, and then, “How long have I been dead?”

“Almost twenty years. Today is May 26, 1998.”

He sat down on the chair opposite, still frowning. “The war lasted twenty years?” His tone was drenched with a kind of horrified disbelief.

“Not exactly. But it took twenty years for someone other than you to realize he was using horcruxes to stay alive.”

Walburga let out a soft horrified gasp in the background, “Horcruxes?”

“Ye gods… what happened to the rest of my family?”

Hermione wrapped her arms around her torso, seeking some kind of comfort from the depressing state of things. “Narcissa is still alive, with her son. And Andromeda with her grandson. But everyone else…”

“Everyone else is dead? My father? My brother? My uncles?”

Hermione felt her expression shutter, remembering the dead. “I’m sorry Regulus.”

“Kreacher?”

There was a poof, and the decrepit old house elf appeared in front of them. He took one bleary eyed look at his former master, before he turned on Hermione with a scowl. “Filthy arrogant Mudblood, messing with magic beyond her _type_ , what have you done with Master Regulus?”

Hermione felt like she had just sucked on a lemon, and was sure her expression showed it. “I didn’t do anything. The text didn’t say anything about summoning soulmates from beyond the grave. How was I supposed to know this would happen?”

“What did the text say exactly?” Regulus was wearing that judgmental frown again that made her feel like an idiot.

“It specified that the soulmate would have to be ‘in the same lifetime’.”

“That’s not the same thing as ‘alive’.”

Hermione could feel her scowl deepen. “You would think that if there was any danger of summoning the dead, they would have mentioned it.”

“Perhaps the author assumed that no one would be idiotic enough to try to summon a soulmate unless they knew who it was first?”

“Then why create this ritual in the first place? If you could just use the many summoning rituals already in existence that work by locating someone by name?”

His tone was snide, if matter-of-fact. “The nature of summoning rituals is inherently more complicated than that. Which you might know if you had been properly educated on the subject. But given your birth, I doubt you had the opportunity.”

Hermione glared at the decomposing man in irritation, but didn’t say anything in return. The familiar reminder that there was information she would never have access to, that she would never fully fit in, that this wasn’t _her_ world rankled. But he was right in this instance. Blood purity politics aside, there was something to be said about the difficulty of assimilation. And there were some days she felt like she would never get to the point where she wouldn’t feel like an outsider.

And then the twist of his features evened out, and the macabre creature looked somehow pensive. “We should conduct experiments to see how this came about. If the pieces of stone on your arm did indeed interfere with the ritual, it stands to reason that it would interfere with some of your other spellwork as well. We can worry about the nature of our bond later.”

And here was another impassively delivered, practical solution. Hermione took a good ten seconds to appreciate his practicality and wonder at his sudden lack of antipathy before she nodded. “I agree. Perhaps you would know where to start? Given your… knowledge and experience?”

Her tone was a touch sarcastic, and the skeletal creature actually looked amused at her cheek.

“I have a few ideas.”

***

The next two weeks passed in an odd flurry of activity.

After Regulus took the time to take in her appearance more closely, he nicely asked Kreacher if he would be willing to feed her. As a result, Hermione suddenly found herself bullied into several full, surprisingly delicious meals a day. The undead man also had no qualms about ordering her to bed, which had caused quite the spat the first time. But exhausted from lack of sleep, and confronted by a blend of logic and guilt-tripping she found herself particularly susceptible to, she gave in eventually and found herself the better for it.

With a refreshed mental acuity, Hermione was able to make her own suggestions and amendments to their run of experiments and hypothesis centered around the unique phenomenon that was her right hand.

“Perhaps we could locate spells or rituals that already contain some element of the dead, experiment with those first, and then gradually expand to everyday charms and the like?”

He had snorted. “That is not a bad plan in theory, but it will be difficult to determine much without a basis for comparison, and I am wary of attempting magic in this form. In addition, it would be impossible to research anything you are considering without practicing the Dark Arts. How familiar are you with that branch of magic? How much exposure did you have during the war?”

Hermione had made a face, trying to decide how much to tell him. But she knew their results could be skewed without full disclosure. After all, perhaps her recent experiences with Dark Magic were influencing the magic of the stone? “Do horcruxes count? I wore that damned locket for months. There was some exposure to the Unforgiveables, both as a recipient and a caster. And then… Bellatrix might have carved me up a bit with a cursed blade?”

Regulus’ eye muscles twitched. “Well, that’s certainly something. Although I have to ask. Why in the world did you keep the horcrux around your neck?”

Hermione frowned, trying to remember their reasoning during the war. “We didn’t want to lose it.”

His tone was incredulous. “There are infinitely safer methods to carry a dark artifact on your person.”

Hermione couldn’t help but shrug, and she could tell her nonchalance was making him angry.

“Just because you think you are fine now, doesn’t mean there weren’t consequences.”

“What was I supposed to do, Regulus? How was I supposed to know? We were teenagers, not even out of school, wandering in the woods without a safe way to contact any knowledgeable adult…”

His tone was cold. “I knew how to properly handle dark artifacts before I even arrived at Hogwarts.”

Hermione felt her temper spark. “Well, how nice for you. I did not. And instead of helping me adjust, my more knowledgeable peers shunned me and encouraged my demise. And instead of researching cultural norms or social etiquette or the appropriate handling of dark artifacts, I was forced to research dragons and basilisks and dementors and werewolves and magical law and occulmency and how to breathe under water because everything and everyone kept trying to kill us!”

By the time she had finished her rant, she was breathing hard and could feel blue sparks of barely contained energy spiraling down her curls.

He stared at her thoughtfully for a couple of minutes, not saying anything, and her anger quickly settled into embarrassment in the prolonged silence.

It was only when she curled into herself in the stuffy armchair that he spoke. “We can discuss the mess that was apparently your Hogwarts education at a later date. In the meantime, it’s about time someone informed you about social etiquette and the Dark Arts. I assume you’ve picked up cultural norms by now.”

And then, just like that, their disagreement was over. And just like that, she found herself nodding in agreement, and blithely adding, “You would think.”

He wasted no time collecting several texts off the shelves, and depositing the pile into her arms. “Read this by the end of the week. Then we can sit down and talk about it over tea.”

“Okay.”

And they did just that. And the chat was illuminating in more ways than one. She remembered looking up at him at one point, watching curiously as this grotesque creature sipped at his tea with the grace of an aristocrat. Trying to contemplate his motives and caught up in her musings, she asked, “Why are you helping me?”

His look was measured and evaluating. “Why do you think I wouldn’t?”

Hermione had frowned. “I’m the reason you are currently undead and aware of the fact? And word of mouth is that you harbored some blood purity prejudice before you died. So I’m not sure why you would?”

Regulus spoke in measured cadences as he slowly got up to refill his glass, and Hermione was suddenly caught by the fact that he made a decent orator. He sounded in control of himself, and it was flattering to hear that he was actually considering what he had to say. “You brought up a good point. For as much as we impugn muggleborns and their place in society, we have never done anything to smooth the transition.”

He looked up at her pointedly. “I do not believe that blood purity is any indication of magical prowess or intelligence. But cultural ignorance is an unfortunate truth. Our traditions persevere for a reason, but these… _interlopers_ come, bound and determined to change our ways, convinced _we_ are the ones with the ethnocentric behavior.”

He sat back down and sighed. “So you, my dear, are my experiment in more ways than one. I had been taught that it was impossible for Mudbloods to learn our ways, and that even attempting such a thing was degrading and deplorable. But I am dead, and do not at all care about the opinion of others. I want to see whether or not you can support some of our traditions if you fully understand the reasoning behind them.”

Hermione considered him through narrowed eyes and had something of an epiphany. “You feel it too, don’t you? The bond. And this is your attempt to justify our connection and your own sense of self-worth.”

Regulus humphed again, and shot her an amused look that was beginning to get on her nerves. “Perhaps. But you participate for your own sense of validation, don’t you? A girl, who apart from a few moments of cleverness and insight, builds her relationships on discovery and confrontation in a manner that reeks of insecurity. And with a lack of discretion that I doubt made you many friends.”

Hermione crossed her arms in front of her chest defensively. “I have friends.”

“I doubt the relationships are healthy. You seem incapable of accepting that you might be wrong about something, so instead of agreeing to salient points, you grow defensive and emotional. You become so caught up in your pride you close yourself off of properly considering the position of the other person.”

“How would you know? You’ve observed me for what, a week and a half? And never with company. So how would you have any idea?”

He stared at her pointedly in another long silence that had Hermione second-guessing her words and huffing to herself in embarrassment and irritation.

“It’s not a problem to have faults, Hermione. But you’ll never be able to work through them until you accept that they are there.”

Hermione felt petulant. “And what about your faults?”

His response was quick and matter-of-fact. “I have a low tolerance for stupidity, and have a tendency to act disrespectfully to even the powerful if I determine them senseless, which has repercussions. I also find betrayal to be unforgivable, so my retribution against those that abuse my name, my belongings, and those close to me is rather extreme.”

Hermione was surprised that he was so forthright with his response. “I see.”

“But we will both work past these issues, yes? I must admit that being dead has given me some perspective, some… distance that I find very useful. And if we are truly bonded, your weaknesses are my weaknesses, and I would rather turn your weaknesses into strengths.”

This was a reasonable suggestion, and Hermione found herself forced to indulge in an act of introspection as she nodded absentmindedly. She considered how much of her relationships with her peers consisted of arguing and confrontation, and was rather appalled to realize that it constituted the majority. Even her relationships with Harry and Ron seemed rife with petty disagreements and sullen silences. It was disconcerting to discover.

Hermione found herself wanting to grow out of that. She wanted to have disagreements that didn’t descend into arguments, and she wanted to interact with the world without feeling so defensive or insecure. She wanted to be calm, and strong, and compassionate. So she found herself making resolutions before she had even realized it. “I will try to be more contentious of my behavior and the position of others.”

And then Regulus smiled, and Hermione found herself quite bereft because she was somehow certain that back when this monster used to be a boy, he must have had a beautiful smile.

***

It was after this concord that Hermione felt comfortable suggesting a temporary fix in regards to his appearance.

“What do you think about brewing Polyjuice Potion? Your bedroom has been practically untouched, I’m sure we could locate a reasonable amount of your hairs.”

He took a full minute to respond. This was a habit that Hermione was gradually adjusting too, as none of her previous friends took so much time to consider and evaluate their responses. “I’ve never heard of an inferi using Polyjuice Potion. But I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to at least make an attempt.”

“Excellent!”

He shot her an amused look at her enthusiasm. “And I suppose you already know how to make it?”

Hermione nodded, digging a piece of parchment out of the bottom of her bag so she could create a shopping list of ingredients to pick up. “Of course. I made it at Hogwarts.”

His eyes narrowed, but Hermione was too preoccupied to see it. “Has the curriculum changed much in twenty years? Because I do not recall ever making it in class.”

Hermione stilled, and slowly looked back up at him. And knew, instantly, that he suspected something. That he was waiting to see how she would respond, if she would actually tell him. It felt like a test. “I didn’t make it in class. I brewed it illegally in my second year, in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom.”

“Brewing advanced dark potions in second year? I had no idea you were so talented.”

Hermione felt her cheeks warm at the teasing tilt to his voice. “Just a bit.”

“Why did you brew it?”

The blush darkened. “We wanted to get into the Slytherin Common Room.”

He let out an incredulous chortle. “And you thought Polyjuice Potion was your way in? A potion that takes a month, contains expensive, difficult to obtain ingredients, and requires access to a dark text I’m sure you found in the Restricted Section? Rather than something infinitely easier, like a disillusionment charm?”

She felt like her face was on fire. “We needed information. The Polyjuice was needed to conduct an interrogation.”

Again, his face turned pensive. “Interesting. I suppose this expedition was a little more complicated than the novelty of seeing a different common room, then. But why didn’t you attempt eavesdropping first, outside of the common room? How old was the student you were interrogating?”

Hermione bit her lip, her embarrassment growing as she began to understand his point. “Twelve.”

“That’s what I thought. Not quite old enough to be properly reticent, even for a Slytherin. So Polyjuice Potion is a bit overkill, don’t you think?”

And Hermione sighed, remembering her resolution. “I suppose so, yes.”

Another disgusting smile lifted his lips in a way that made him look tragically demonic. “It seems, my dear, you have a tendency to respond dramatically and drastically to dangerous situations. Remind me to curb that in the future.” And then he laughed when she shot an ugly look in his direction for his cheek. “But at least we have the gift of prior experience in this situation, hm? Will you need any help acquiring ingredients?”

Hermione shook her head. “No, it should be fine. There are some people looking for me, but only a select few. As far as I know, no one has told the Prophet I am missing just yet. I’ll pop into Diagon Alley later tomorrow.”

***

And for the most part, she was right. She wore the cape of her hood up, but didn’t try any other alterations in her appearance, and was not bothered. She kept her eyes on the ground, ignoring the alive and the dead alike. She did not, however, expect to run into Andromeda at the Apothecary after she had made her purchases.

The older woman gave her a quick look over, and then led her to a quiet, unoccupied alleyway behind a line of storefronts. “Boomslang skin, Hermione? Fluxweed? Leeches? Why are you brewing a Polyjuice Potion?”

Hermione sighed while mentally configuring an escape route. “It’s complicated.”

“Is it? The last I heard, you were hysterical from seeing demonic hallucinations, and on your way to the Janus Thickey Ward.”

Hermione mentally swore. “I’m fine. I’m not schizophrenic, and I don’t need to be locked up.”

“Then why haven’t we heard from you?”

Hermione found herself speaking in familiar measured cadences without even realizing it. “I was worried that my friends would either commit me, or pressure me in to going to St. Mungos. I don’t need to visit a hospital.”

And Andromeda seemed to match the pacing of her words. “I have never known you to be an irrational girl, Hermione. But Dark Magic has a way of altering our perceptions. Your course of action may seem reasonable to you, but it might not be to the rest of the world.”

Hermione stared into the older woman’s eyes, letting silence fill their space as she considered how to convince the women that her mental facilities were fine. “I agree that something has happened to my magical core. I agree that I have been exposed to Dark Magic and maybe do not yet understand the consequences. But I am not going to get better sedated and restrained to a hospital bed.”

More silence as Hermione waited in anticipation, before finally, Andromeda nodded. “You are right. But you still need support, maybe now more than ever. Would you like to have tea with me tomorrow? We can discuss what happened after the battle, as well as your recent purchases.”

Hermione was caught between feeling thankful for an opportunity for support in someone besides Harry, and wary that Andromeda might make the situation more difficult through her interference. “That sounds nice.”

“Do you remember where I live?”

Hermione nodded. “Is Teddy still living with you?”

Andromeda smiled. “He is for the moment. Tomorrow’s the full moon, so his father will be… indisposed. Teddy will be glad to see you.”

Hermione smiled too, remembered the bright baby boy. “I look forward to spending time with him.”

She would discuss this situation with Regulus when she returned to Grimmauld Place. He should be able to help her formulate a plan, and hopefully she could visit his cousin without making the woman too suspicious.

* * *

To be continued...

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think of my Regulus? Too mature maybe? I figured that death might give him some perspective. And what do you think of my decision to make him unaware of the events in the war? 
> 
> I apologize in advance for any tense discrepancies. I'll try editing it again sometime tomorrow.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	4. Knots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An inferi, a vampire, and a cursed girl walk into a bar...

**Chapter 4: Knots**

* * *

“And the most terrifying question of all may be just how much horror the human mind can stand and still maintain a wakeful, staring, unrelenting sanity.”   
― Stephen King, Pet Semetary

* * *

 

There were several things about her visit with Andromeda that Hermione expected to happen. She expected to see a gory shade of Ted Tonks lingering close to his family members. She anticipated greeting a happy, babbling Metamorphmagus, who would spend his time sucking on pieces of frozen banana while pulling on her corkscrew curls. And she expected Andromeda to waste little time before conducting an intense interrogation during their ‘tea time’.

She did not, however, expect to sit down at a table outfitted in doilies (her ankles crossed like a proper young lady) with both Andromeda and Narcissa Malfoy, and _actually_ drink tea.

Hermione was torn between feeling reluctantly grateful that her grandmother had seen it fit to demand she attend finishing courses at St. James (as she didn’t make a fool of herself), and wary from being outnumbered. Although she _was_ rather pleased to see that the Black sisters had been able to make amends sometime in the last few weeks.

They made small talk. Or rather, in the way of many women, they discussed trivialities that passive aggressively hinted at more serious issues.

“How have you been, my dear? Are you still spending time at Grimmauld Place?”

Hermione looked between the two women cautiously. “Yes, I have been there for the last month or so.”

“I see, and how is dear Aunt Walburga fairing?”

Hermione imagined she was referring to the dead woman’s portrait, but the lack of specification raised her suspicions. “Oh, I’m sure you can guess. Mudblood this and Mudblood that. I find the invariability rather tiresome.”

Andromeda smirked as Narcissa raised a pretty blonde eyebrow in surprise. Hermione thought she understood why the woman felt taken aback; it was probably a novelty for a muggleborn to be so cavalier about their blood-status in front of her. But Hermione felt she had earned the right.

“Yes, she was always rather… dogmatic.”

Hermione barely stopped herself from snorting at the woman’s sarcastic attempt at a diplomatic tone. The word choice really was perfect.

“Indeed.”

A short pause, in which all three women made a show of fussing with a biscuit. And then Andromeda’s subtle inquisition continued with the same airy intonation. “I imagine you spend most of your time in the Black library?”

A perfectly innocent inquiry on the surface, but Hermione was no simpleton. She was a well-established bookworm- as such, this kind of question usually only came up during inane small talk with superficial acquaintances because discussing the weather had already been exhausted. Because _of course_ she spent time in the library. For Andy to ask something so obvious was suspicious. Unless the question was for Narcissa’s benefit? Although that didn’t exactly fit either.

Hermione frowned, remembering the chat she had with Regulus the night before, who had quickly reminded her that this woman had been raised in a den of snakes. “I do indeed. Old habits, I’m afraid. Reading has always been my favorite way to cope.”

The fact that she needed to cope from the trauma of the war went unsaid.

“May I inquire about your recent reading preferences?”

Hermione hummed thoughtfully, considering how much to divulge while trying to tamp down on her suspicions. “I have taken to reading about magical artifacts. If you have spoken to Harry at all, I’m sure you can guess why.”

Narcissa spoke up for the first time, and Hermione turned towards the beautiful fair-haired woman with careful consideration. “Have you found anything of import?”

Hermione shook her head. “Nothing conclusive. Most artifacts don’t retain magical properties once the runes responsibility for their enchantments are separated. Unfortunately, in my case, this artifact not only retained magical characteristics, those characteristics have changed and manipulated my magical core. I am afraid that whatever changes it has wrought are permanent.”

At least until she could figure out her soulmate situation.

“And how have these characteristics manifested on your person?”

Hermione tilted her head at the blonde woman curiously, and decided to investigate a personal theory. “I’m sure you already have some idea. Otherwise, why else would you be here?”

Narcissa’s eyebrow raised in challenge. “To visit a most cherished, but recently estranged sister?”

“Which would be easier to do in my absence.”

“Not necessarily.”

“Most probably. Considering the nature of our last couple of encounters, which I’m sure you can agree were rather unfortunate, our interactions were either going to be very awkward, or lend a degree of animosity. And yet you chose to stay even after becoming aware of my identity. Thus, I have some cause to suspect that you have a reason to be curious about my situation.”

“Perhaps.”

Hermione accepted this partial concession as a Slytherin victory. She smiled at the woman, amused to see Narcissa was slightly miffed, and answered her original question. “I can see and talk to dead people. But you both already knew that.”

Narcissa shook her head slowly in denial. “We knew that the Potter boy claimed you were hurt by a mythical artifact. And we knew that you began acting in a hysterical manner. But according to Madame Pomfrey, you never really discussed exactly what was going on.”

Hermione considered that through pursed lips. “Then why are you here?”

“Severus. He said you touched his hand in the hospital, and he… _saw_ things.”

Hermione frowned, unpleasantly surprised. She recalled that incident with perfect clarity, but had good reason to suspect at the time that the horror on her Potion Professor’s face had been as a result of a stalking werewolf about to attack. “What did he see, exactly?”

Narcissa gave her a cheeky look. “I’m sure you know.”

Hermione huffed. “Dead people?”

Andromeda interrupted. “And that is not our only cause for concern. According to Remus, he was dead during the last full moon, until you ran into him in the hospital wing. And apparently, ‘pushed his soul back into his body’.”

Well, shit. Hermione tried to keep herself from panicking. These were just two more counts of how unpredictable her magic has become since the incident took place. Obviously this went beyond botched rituals and skewed spellwork if she was able to manipulate other people’s souls through touch. She really needed to talk to Regulus.

“You don’t seem very surprised,” Andromeda noted dryly.

Hermione spoke haltingly, still trying to stop from hyperventilating. If she fainted during teatime, she would never forgive herself. “I am already aware that the current erratic nature of my magic is impacting my spellwork in unpredictable ways. So I suppose this is just another example.”

“Oh? How interesting. Could you elaborate?”

Hermione barely stopped herself from rolling her eyes at the overly polite inquiry as she considered her response. The ritual she knew not to disclose. Regulus had been rather adamant that he be kept a secret until they were better informed about the nature of their bond. So she reported some of their preliminary findings from their experimentations. “Every day spells have not really been affected, but… anything that might be considered dark or light magic has. Would you like an example?”

Both women nodded, obviously intrigued.

Hermione didn’t waste any time retrieving her wand. “ _Expecto Patronum_!”

A familiar ball of light expanded and formed into an unfamiliar creature. Both women felt their frown deepen as they took in the decapitated man astride a black and rotting horse, who had a decomposing head tucked under his arm that possessed wide eyes and a hideous grin that stretched to fill up his entire face. He trotted throughout the room with stifled energy, until he took note of Teddy and the grin somehow widened. The infant stared back in wary confusion.

“A dullahan?”

Hermione nodded. “Have you ever heard of anyone having an unseelie as a Patronus before?”

Andromeda looked worried. “It shouldn’t be possible. Unseelie are inherently dark, and shouldn’t be able to manifest using a light spell.”

Hermione nodded. “Then you can see why I am not surprised after hearing about my former professors.”

They nodded, still frowning, and watched as the Patronus finally dissipated. Narcissa finally gave a small aristocratic sniff. “That is most unsettling.”

Hermione shrugged. “I am slowly acclimating.”

Andromeda pinned her down with her gaze. “So you have been experimenting with your spellwork?”

And here was the opening that Regulus had instructed her to look for. Hermione nodded. “I systematically made my way through _The Standard Book of Spells_ 1-7, and have finished reapplying the Transfiguration textbooks. I have moved onto Potions, which is why you saw me at the Apothecary. I figured that the Polyjuice Potion would be considered dark enough to use as a reasonable standard to see if my… affliction has any bearing on my potion making.”

Andromeda crossed her arms in front of her chest, evidently thinking, as she let out a sigh. “I can understand why you think it necessary, of course. The more you are able to predict how your magic has changed, the better for everyone you intend to cast around. However, I have reservations about you experimenting with dark potions without supervision while you are so… unstable.”

Hermione grimaced at the woman. “I didn’t think I was in the market for an instructor. As everyone appears to believe I have schizophrenia.”

Narcissa spoke up. “Severus will do it. He won’t be happy about it, but the last time we spoke, he seemed… particularly inclined towards dissolving a life debt he owes you.”

“Severus Snape owes me a life debt?”

That bit of news made Hermione rather upset. After everything that the man had been through? Another life debt?

Narcissa eyed her warily. “It was through your intervention that his life was saved.”

Hermione couldn’t stop from scowling. “I’m not sure what cosmic injustice that man committed in another life, but a life debt is ridiculous. From the man that once stood in between me and a werewolf? That helped guarantee Riddle’s defeat? Ergh. I don’t suppose there is any way that I can dissolve it?”

Andromeda looked rather amused. “Not that I know of.”

Hermione sighed. “Well, I suppose I need to meet him sooner rather than later. Do you know where he is staying?”

Narcissa eyed her curiously. “He was recently released from St. Mungos, and Lucius insisted that he be allowed to convalesce at Malfoy Manor.”

Hermione felt her head cock as she considered the blonde woman’s wording. It sounded as if Lucius was currently free, which would have surprised her, considering the fact that he rather publicly escaped prison a mere two years ago. “Have you already had your trials?”

Narcissa face lost all expression, which Hermione thought was rather telling. “My trial was two weeks ago. Draco goes to trial in three weeks, and Lucius in two months.”

Hermione was well aware that, typically, individuals awaiting trial were briefly incarcerated. “Azkaban?”

The beautiful blonde woman’s lips twitched in amusement. “No, they are simply confined at the Manor. Apparently dismantling the Muggleborn Registration Commission created some confusion at the prison, and the Ministry is rather too busy attempting to placate muggleborns and the Muggle government to be concerned with convicting publicly defected Death Eaters.”

Hermione slowly nodded, and considered everything she wasn’t saying. “I suppose, if these supervised potions lessons were to take place, it would be at the Manor, then?”

“Most likely.”

Hermione nodded again, and made it a point to verbalize her thoughts. “I wonder which of the dead I’ll see while I’m there.”

Narcissa stilled and made an unpleasant face that Hermione had no way of deciphering. Then the three woman sipped on their tea as an awkward silence settled between them.

Hermione left shortly afterwards, afraid Andromeda would ask about her dead husband and daughter.

***

Hermione took advantage of the fact that she was already out and about, and made it a point to venture into Knockturn Alley in search of a bookstore that might have a book that could determine the nature of her bond with Regulus. The experience turned out to be a rather harrowing one, which made sense in retrospect. Despite her best attempt to obscure her features and not draw any attention to herself, she was accosted along the way. First by hags, which was a common enough occurrence, but then by some of the ghastliest shades she had yet to encounter.

It was like some of the Dark Arts books she had peeked at come to life. Bodies were turned inside out, dismembered, decapitated, drowned, horribly burned, mummified in one particular instance, and another had limbs that were reattached in odd places. There were victims of overly ambitious human transfiguration attempts, including a particularly beautiful young man whose arms had been replaced with wings that jutted from his shoulder blades at a grotesque angle. There was a barefoot woman that might have been mistaken as pregnant if not for the tendrils of plants rupturing out of all available orifices on her body.

It was horrific.

Hermione numbly attempted to rationalize the experience by attaching a cause of death to a particular spell or potion for every individual that she saw, hoping to distract herself by considering the shades as a manifestation of magic rather than a person that had once lived and breathed. But after witnessing a frothy-mouthed, trembling little girl that had evidently been poisoned, Hermione had to pause in order to puke into some conveniently placed bushes. Based on the smell emanating from the damp leaves, she had not been the only one to do so recently.

Gross.

But there, a possible sanctuary in the distance! Hermione noticed the second-hand bookstore with no small amount of relief, and darted towards the door.

It gave a reassuring jingle as she stepped inside, and it took Hermione a good ten seconds to recognize the ringing notes for what they were. A ward grounded through the small series of bells and triggered by the soundwaves created as the door was moved. Fascinating.

The inside was quaint, if dark, and bookshelves lined the entire shop, squeezed almost unnaturally in certain nooks and corners. Despite the suspicious, glowering old man behind the counter, Hermione was rather sure she had just found heaven. Particularly as there wasn’t a shade to be seen between the aisles.

Hermione took her time perusing, pointedly ignoring the obvious signs of irritated exasperation stemming from the hairy, disgruntled bookkeep. To her delight, she found _three_ different books pertaining to identifying bonds, two more that vaguely referred to soul magic, and one particularly dark book that discussed the long-term effects of exposure to the Dark Arts. Ideally, Hermione could purchase a book that discussed these effects as it specifically related to horcruxes, but she knew that the likelihood of finding such a text to be near impossible. So she would have to do with _Darkening the Soul_ and form conjecture as intelligently as she could.

By the time she exited the shop, darkness had fallen, and Hermione felt a tingle of nervous anticipation shoot up her spine as her mind and body remembered the possibility of danger. She grasped her purchased texts to her chest and clutched her wand in an attempt to control the anxious tremors as she headed towards the Diagon Alley entrance with her hood down.

Hermione was stopped when she saw a body step in front of her, and automatically looked up to meet the person’s eyes in order to issue an apology. A formality she soon forgot when she took in the appearance of the woman standing in front of her.

Hermione had always mentally understood on some level that domestic abuse was something that happened, a horrible grievance in today’s society, but there was something about seeing the evidence first hand that made all the air in her lungs escape in a choked, horrified gasp.

Under the large bruises and a multitude of broken bones, Hermione could see that the woman was gorgeous according to the Pureblooded ideals of beauty; large blue eyes with dramatically long eyelashes, a straight and narrow nose, full pouty lips, and a body that was willowy and graceful. It made the painted splotches of blood and visible pieces of bone all the more tragic to see.

Still, despite how beautiful the woman was, Hermione had little interest in speaking with the dead. She attempted to neatly sidestep the woman, pretending to skip over a pothole.

But this woman was adamant, and Hermione caught herself stilling as she took in the woman’s tears.

“Please, you have to help me. She took my son. My Theodore. My beautiful baby boy…”

Used to the ramblings of the dead by now and dismissing it as a past grievance the woman was obsessing over, Hermione just muttered an apology and tried to scamper away.

But the shade once again threw herself in front of Hermione, her features twisting in a kind of bitter agony. “No, you cannot leave! He is bleeding out in an alleyway a few blocks from here! You must save him!”

That was specific enough to encourage Hermione to meet the woman’s eyes once again, and she quickly gave in to the urge to investigate after seeing the woman's broken expression. “Who is in trouble?”

“My son, Theodore.”

It took a second for Hermione to make the connection, which was possible after she remembered a certain Slytherin classmate leaning over to snicker with Malfoy while wearing the same pair of bright blue eyes. “Theodore Nott?” she asked just in case.

The woman nodded enthusiastically. “Please, you must save him!”

Hermione quickly ruminated on what she remembered about the boy. She knew he had lived past the Battle at Hogwarts, so it was entirely possible that this shade was telling the truth. Throwing aside any moral dilemmas she should have considering the boy’s affiliation during the war, Hermione focused on the devastation on the woman’s face. Grateful that she was finally be able to help one of these demanding shades, Hermione nodded at the beautiful disaster of a woman. “Please, lead on.”

The shade wasted no time leading Hermione further into Knockturn Alley, expertly avoiding the other dead that were still lingering in the area. It took less than ten minutes for them to reach an absolutely filthy alleyway, and as soon as Hermione saw the bleeding, gasping form on the ground, she threw herself forward.

It was, indeed, Theodore Nott, and the nature of his injuries reminded Hermione anxiously of Severus Snape’s close demise. A pair of clear fang marks had punctured the side of his neck, and blood seemed to be leaking from a ruptured carotid artery in a steady stream.

Hermione immediately put pressure to the wound with her left hand as she considered what incantations to attempt. She hadn’t gotten to healing spells and potions yet with her experimentations, and was somewhat wary that anything she tried would have a negative effect. That, and she was apprehensive about administering treatment without knowing the cause of his affliction.

Apparently, her hesitation was enough to stir his dead mother. “What are you waiting around for! Heal him!”

This would be easier with more information. The marks looked almost human, but perhaps his mother would have a better idea, as she was able to readily lead Hermione to the scene of the crime.

“Do you know what bit him? I don’t want to accidentally harm him.”

The older woman’s face relaxed instantly in a flood of understanding. “It was a vampire. She feed him spirits and lured him out here.”

Hermione frowned, troubled. “Considering the state of his neck, I doubt she intended for him to live. Do you know if he will turn?”

The woman looked aghast at the possibility. “I’m not sure. I was preoccupied looking for help.”

Hermione let out an aggravated sigh as she shoved her purchased texts in her handy dandy beaded purse and pulled out a package of bandages. This little piece of information mattered greatly; the prescribed treatment for a vampire bite varied greatly depending on whether or not he was infected. She remembered reading that this kind of bite was almost always incurable, similar to werewolf bites, but she didn’t want to presume just in case he was an exception. She needed to check her references in order to be sure.

Hermione wrapped his neck as tightly as she dared, and then reached over him in order to gather as much of his torso into her arms as she could. “I’m going to take him home. He needs potions, new bandages. There is only so much I would be able to do from here.”

The beaten woman looked at her with a sad smile and nodded. “Thank you so much for your help.” She disappeared.

Hermione clutched the bleeding boy’s shoulders and apparated home.

***

Regulus was not pleased when she popped into the library with an unconscious young man that immediately bled all over his carpet. He was nonetheless perfectly willing to help Hermione find necessary supplies and figure out how to heal the boy after she had explained the situation.

He promised to berate her for her stupidity in visiting Knockturn Alley alone at night so close to the end of the war at a later time.

They quickly ascertained that Theodore was, indeed, infected. But none of the books available in the Black library described any particular protocol to help him transition into his new state. The fang marks refused to disappear, even with the application of Dittany, but they were able to heal his neck enough to close the hole in his artery. They then cleaned his body, repaired his robes, wrapped his neck up in more bandages, and continued to pour over any relevant texts.

They were unsure whether or not it would be wise to give him Blood-Replenishing Potion. They argued back and forth about the merits of attempting to administer it, as their young charge still appeared to be at the cusp of death due to blood loss. Hermione dragged a dozen potions texts to the floor and attempted to find any information about the dangers of giving this potion to the newly turned, well aware that the potion was poison for fully established vampires.

Regulus lamented their conundrum by sighing loudly. “It is times like this that I really miss Severus. I’m sure he would know, considering the vast number of potions texts he devoured in school.”

Which gave Hermione an idea. “I can ask him, if you think it wise. I have to meet him soon anyways, so this could be a convenient means for us to get the information we need while scheduling an appointment.”

The muscles around Regulus’ right eye had twitched upwards again in that grotesque facsimile of an eye-brow raise. “You are in contact with Severus Snape? You?”

Hermione frowned, choosing to take affront at his surprised tone. “Is there something wrong with that?”

Regulus shrugged, which looked incredibly odd on the inferi. “In my time he is a rather established Death Eater. I presumed him dead or incarcerated if the war was, indeed, over. I suppose I should have asked.”

Hermione could somehow tell that he was being evasive with the truth, but decided to pursuit the matter when a man wasn’t dying on their carpets. “Stay here with him? Let me know if anything changes? I’ll see if I can Floo Snape from here.”

She quickly grabbed a handful of Floo powder, threw it into the large library fireplace, and called out, “Malfoy Manor!”

It took several minutes, but eventually Hermione was greeted by the scowling visage that was Lucius Malfoy’s face. He appeared as dispassionate as always, but Hermione thought she could catch a hint of surprise furrowing his brow. “Miss Granger?”

Hermione took a deep breath in a sorry attempt to control her nerves, which were adding tension to her forearms and pulling at the air in her lungs again. “Good evening Mr. Malfoy. I need to talk to Professor Snape, if that would be at all possible.”

His eyes narrowed in the flames. “How do you know he’s here?”

Hermione gave him a thin smile. “I had tea with Andromeda and your wife earlier today. She informed me that the Professor wanted to see me.”

The man scoffed disdainfully. “I can assure you, he does not. We were in the middle of drinking together, in fact, attempting to forget your very existence.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Lovely. But if Severus Snape is indeed in the room with you, can I ask a quick question? Assure him that this is a matter of some urgency. I have a bleeding man dying on my carpets.”

The man snorted in amusement. “Do you make it a habit to find dying men, Miss Granger? I’m surprised you can still find the mental acuity to cater to your savior complex, considering the last I heard, you were diagnosed as clinically insane.”

“And _you_ are the picture perfect example of sanity? I’m sure I could argue that your participation in Riddle’s little cult is enough to question your state of mind.”

He sighed dramatically. “Yes, well, at least I never polyjuiced as Bellatrix, broke into Gringotts, and escaped on the back of a blind, deranged dragon. That was all you, my dear.”

“You did what?” Regulus spoke up incredulously from behind her.

Hermione turned her head towards his voice. “Hush.”

Regulus ignored her subtle attempts to remind him to keep quiet. “Don’t hush me. You broke into _Gringotts_? Does your foolhardy behavior truly have no limits? Will I need to be concerned that you might accidentally kill yourself the moment my back is turned? And exactly how many Death Eaters are in your acquaintance?”

She turned and saw Regulus flashing Theodore’s pale left arm in her direction while looking pointedly towards the fireplace. She rolled her eyes again. “Slytherins. Just because I engaged in risky behavior during the war does not mean I have no self-preservation instinct.”

“This from the woman who brought home a bleeding body she found in an alleyway while wandering Knockturn Alley alone at night?”

Hermione grew defensive. “It is not as if I spent hours wandering up and down Knockturn Alley on a whim! I went there to visit the bookstore, and was making my way back when Leliana Nott demanded that I help her son.”

“So you say no and you apparate away!” They both ignored the faint arguing that could be heard from through the Floo connection.

Hermione could feel tears gather in the corner of her eyes, which she tried to blink away in frustration. “You didn’t see her, Reggie! Broken bones and bruises all over her body. She must have died in horrific pain.”

“For Salazar’s sake, Hermione! Shouldn’t that be a pretty strong indication to stay away? Did it ever occur to you that she might be trying to lure you away into some kind of trap?”

They were interrupted by a flash of green Floo light, and both turned to see a hassled-looking Severus Snape step out of the fireplace. He took a long look around the room, quickly drawing his wand when he saw Regulus the inferi crouching over a body wrapped in red gauze. But the possessed corpse just straightened and leaned back, crossing his arms defensively. “Severus,” he stated imperially.

Her previous Potions Professor did not answer, his brow furrowing in confusion as he considered the corpse, before evaluating the body on the floor. A young man who was obviously Theodore Nott, and who had visible puncture wounds in his neck still bleeding through the white bandages. Finally, his robes swooshing behind him, Snape swept towards Hermione, his face displaying the usual blend of recrimination and fury. “What did you do?”

“Me?” Hermione supposed she should have expected some degree of blame.

“Yes, you. The insufferable Gryffindor _Princess,_ evidently still trying to save the world like you’re in a goddamn fairy tale. Except now you seem to be intent on rescuing dark creatures by carelessly playing with the Dark Arts. Are you trying to get yourself killed, you foolish girl?”

Hermione frowned at him, and huffed. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, _sir_.”

The older man sneered unpleasantly. “No? I see an inferi that has somehow regained some level of self-awareness, which could only have been accomplished after manipulating his soul. Which I assure you, just in case your recent experiences have impaired your tedious ability to recite your textbooks verbatim, is an act of dark magic. I also see a newly-turned vampire, unrestrained on the rug. Did you not realize that self-control in vampires has to be developed over years? Or did you intend to offer yourself as a sacrifice for his first feeding?”

Hermione easily overcame years of habit in biting back rebuttals to this man’s acerbic responses. She was so angry. “He is still bleeding, which indicates that he has not actually transformed yet, so restraints are unnecessary. And might continue to be, considering the degree of blood loss he experienced before I found him. The vampire that bit him ripped through his carotid artery.”

Snape seemed to calm down a bit while considering that. “So she didn’t intend to turn him.”

Hermione nodded, and continued, lowering her voice in turn. “Regulus and I were trying decide if it would be wise to give him Blood-Replenishing Potion. I’m not sure if he has enough to successfully undergo his transformation.”

Snape eyed her, his face settling into a severe frown. And then he shook his head. “A blood transfusion would be safer on all counts.”

“A blood transfusion…” Hermione repeated absentmindedly, thinking. As far as she knew, this was not something that was widely practiced in the wizarding world. “Do you have any idea about what his blood type is?”

Regulus walked over to stand beside Hermione. “Well, he’s a Pureblood, isn’t he? I don’t see why else the Dark Lord would have recruited him.”

Hermione rolled her eyes at him. “Theodore was plenty clever enough to warrant special consideration. But that is not what I am talking about. Professor Snape?”

“I don’t suppose it would do any good to remind you that I am no longer your Professor?”

Hermione humphed. “And what would you suggest I call you? Mr. Snape?”

“It would be more appropriate.”

“Fine then. Do you have any idea of his blood type, _Mr. Snape_?”

He gave her a nasty smirk. “No.”

Hermione scowled at the man, before sighing in aggravation. “I’m pretty sure my parents kept blood typing kits in their clinic. I’ll pop over and grab one.”

Severus nodded, his smirk widening cruelly. “Grand. In the meantime, I’m sure Regulus can catch me up on your most recent illicit activities.”

“Whatever.” Inexplicably tired, Hermione ignored Lucius’ voice calling Severus from the fireplace as she popped out of the room.

***

Twenty minutes later, Hermione popped back into the room to see three rather somber looking men seated in a circle around the fireplace. “Theodore,” the name was ripped from her throat before she could stop it once she saw that her previous classmate was conscious, propped up inside a dark leather armchair. They all turned as one to watch her come closer, and Hermione could see Lucius’ face still hovering in the Floo.

“Granger,” the young man wheezed. “I hear you think I’m clever.”

Hermione gave off a short chuckle. “Hard not to be aware of that, considering you were the closest in our year of ruining my standing.” She took a couple steps closer. “Did they tell you what I need to do?”

His blue eyes were dark and sure. “Something to do with a blood test?”

Hermione nodded, and started babbling as she got the kit ready for use. “I need to test your red blood cells in order to determine the kind of antigen and antibody characteristic to your blood. In the last century muggles have discovered that the population is divided into different blood groupings. This difference was an evolutionary response due to exposure to disease, and is important to investigate prior to a blood transfusion because otherwise the transfused blood can clot and the recipient’s body starts to actually attack the donor’s blood cells…”

She trailed off as she reached for Nott’s hand and carefully pricked his fingertip. He watched the procedure with wary eyes. “You realize that is all gibberish to me, right?”

Hermione shrugged. “I can lend you a book later that talks about it if you’re interested, Theodore.”

She doubted he would be, but thought it wouldn’t hurt to be polite, and was pleasantly surprised when he agreed. “Sure. Just stop calling me Theodore. The last time anyone used by full name like that was my Aunt Phyllis when I was five. Theo, please.”

Hermione couldn’t stop from smiling slightly. “Theo,” she agreed. She wasted no time dribbling his drops of blood into the indicated circles on the card, and then treating the circles of blood with the required solution. Everyone watched curiously as particular circles of blood on the card began to curdle like milk. Hermione referred to the reference sheet several times before announcing, “A-. You’re in luck. I’m also an A-, so I should be able to help you out.”

Regulus spoke up before she could continue. “No.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him, preparing to argue her case, but he cut her off before she could open her mouth. “Hermione, your magic has been completely unpredictable recently, and we still haven’t verified what affect the stone has had on your blood. Do you really think we should risk it?”

With his logical rationale and calm, reasonable tone, Regulus showed off the same persuasive powers that had convinced Hermione to sleep for more than three hours at a time. Before she realized it her shoulders were slumped in defeat. “Well, no. Mr. Snape?”

The man shook his head in denial. “I’m O+.”

Hermione tugged on her curls in frustration. “Then what should we do?”

“Blaise.” Theo spoke up haltingly, and the name he uttered was nearly lost in a loud exhale.

“Zabini? You’ve kept in contact?” Hermione inquired.

He nodded, and Hermione turned to the elder Malfoy in determination. “We need to use the floo,” she informed the man bluntly.

Lucius frowned, displeased, but glanced hopefully towards his friend. “Severus, could you reconnect our connection after the Zabini boy arrives? This is the most entertainment I have had in weeks. If it weren’t for these blasted Aurors, I could see it in person.”

Snape rolled his eyes. “I’ll see if I can remember.”

“Severus! After all of my alcohol you-”

Her previous Professor cut off the Floo connection with a smirk. “Granger?”

Hermione turned towards Theo. “Where is he?”

“A room above the Leaky. Number 12.”

Hermione retrieved more powder and shouted into the fireplace. Less than ten seconds had passed before a vaguely familiar face appeared in the fire. His expression was notably taken aback. “Granger?”

“Hey Zabini. I have Theo here, and he suggested you might be able to help with…”

He came bodily through the Floo before Hermione was able to finish her statement. She did her best not to stare. She did not at all remember her former classmate being so good-looking.

Blaise took a careful look around through narrowed eyes, quickly noting his looming former Head of House, a grotesque inferi slouching arrogantly on a floral armchair, a pale and bleeding Theo barely conscious and slipping down expensive leather, and a thin, tired, harassed-looking Hermione who still had Theo’s blood staining her fingers and the side of her face where she had pulled her hair in frustration.

“What the fuck?”

Before Blaise could say anything else, the fireplace filled with a burst of green, and Lucius Malfoy sauntered superciliously into the room.

“Mulciber gave me leave. Merlin preserve Slytherin Aurors.” He settled himself into an unoccupied seat with aplomb, and flicked his hand arrogantly at Zabini. “Commence with the drama.”

When the dark-skinned young man finally spoke up, ignoring the haughty blonde, his tone was terse and annoyed. “Somebody, explain. Now.”

Hermione jumped right on that. “Your friend was bitten by a vampire. He needs a blood transfusion, but none of us can help him. He said you might be able to.”

Zabini’s dark eyes narrowed for a few seconds, and then he sighed at his friend. “I told you that bloody woman was bad news, mate. You need a blood bag, Theo?”

“Please,” the young man wheezed weakly.

Zabini nodded reassuringly. “I’ll get you something.” He addressed the room at large, unsure who to accost. “Can he stay here for a while? It would be best if he avoided the muggle world, and wizarding establishments are rather discriminatory against vampires.”

Hermione’s brow furrowed in concern. “Doesn’t he have a house?”

He stared at her for a solid thirty seconds, and Hermione’s anxiety grew in the silence, feeling increasingly wrong-footed. Finally, he stated, “Once he becomes a vampire, he loses the right to his inheritance, as according to both Pureblooded traditions and the Ministry, he is not recognized as a wizard. He is thus no longer the heir to Nott Manor, and the wards will have reflected this change by denying him entry.”

“His entire inheritance?”

His pause was shorter this time. “Yes.”

“But there are no wards in Gringotts that would deny him access. He is still a blood relation. He still has his vault key.”

“There are laws passed by the Ministry that circumvent that.”

“Only enacted after the Ministry is informed of a change in status. You have to register if you are a vampire or a werewolf; there is nothing in place that automatically updates the change to Being status.”

Zabini sounded wary. “Yes.”

Hermione nodded, feeling determined. “He can stay here. Merlin knows there are plenty of bedrooms. And in the meantime I will do whatever I can to help protect his assets.”

Theo gave her a tired smile. “Thanks, Granger.”

And then Regulus spoke up, once again acting as her persistent voice of reason. “I am not sure that is the best idea.”

Hermione’s chin lifted stubbornly. “Why not?”

“Did you not pay attention to Severus’ warning? Newly turned vampires have very little self-control. Are you really prepared to put your life at risk?”

Hermione shrugged. “We’ll find a way to keep him well-fed. Then his self-control will never have to be an issue.”

“Hermione, you can’t possibly be that naïve…”

She glared at him. “What difference will it make, Regulus? I have an inferi for a soulmate. Your dead parents for roommates. What is one more? Perhaps we can make Grimmauld Place a resting spot for the damned.” She turned towards Blaise defiantly. “Know any werewolves? We can invite them along too. Might as well make use of the cage installed in the basement.”

“Hermione!”

“What? I’m serious. Might as well. Especially if there are others driven homeless by prejudiced, inequitable laws pervading their ability to live normal lives. It’s not right.”

Regulus sighed in exasperation. “Self-righteous Gryffindors.”

Severus nodded in agreement, and was about to add what would no doubt be a derogatory comment when Lucius interrupted them. “I’m sorry, but did I hear Granger call you her soulmate?”

Hermione crossed her arms in front of her chest defensively, well aware of Regulus’ stance on the subject. “I conducted the _Anima producat vinctum_ ritual, and he appeared. What else is to blame?”

“It was a botched ritual.”

“You don’t know that-”

Snape interrupted her. “Granger, he’s right, the ritual was botched. It should never have allowed you to summon the undead. That is not how that ritual works.”

Hermione pouted. “Well, we are bonded in some manner. I can feel it.”

Snape turned towards Regulus. “Is she right?” The decomposing creature nodded. “Have you tried to verify the nature of your bond?”

Regulus shook his head. “My library’s been ransacked. I couldn’t find the spell.”

“May I?”

He nodded. Hermione lamented the unopened books about bonds still in her purse as Severus stated in low, melodious voice, “ _Singillatim Vinculum Aperire.”_

Beams of light shot out of the inferi, and the strongest and brightest by far connected to Hermione’s chest. The sheen was a brilliant display of gold and silver, and Snape’s eyebrow shot towards his hairline in surprise. He looked at both of them, blinking.

Lucius was more than happy to fill the silence. “Well well, it seems the ritual wasn't  _completely_ botched.”

They were interrupted by a loud feminine screech by the library doors. Only Hermione, Regulus, and Zabini took note of the noise, and Hermione couldn’t stop from narrowing her eyes at the Italian wizard distrustfully. How could he hear the shade too?

Walburga continued to throw a fit. “I have already stated that it is impossible for these two to be soulmates!”

Severus sounded scornful and suspicious in turn, glaring at the group of young adults staring at the empty doorway. “What are you all looking at?”

Hermione held up her hand with a questioning brow, and only a few seconds passed before Severus seemed to realize what she was offering, and loosely grasped her hand. His fingers were cool and dry.

Once Severus registered what it is they were looking at, he rolled his eyes and let go of her hand. “Walburga,” he explained to his blonde comrade.

“Ah,” Lucius stated, looking warily between his friend and Hermione’s fingers.

They were all interrupted by the sound of a body falling to the floor, and Zabini and Hermione ran to the unconscious Theo. Hermione got there first and tried to shoo him away while checking Theo’s vitals. “Go get the blood bags. I’ll send Snape and Malfoy home, and get Theo set up in one of the bedrooms. We can figure out how to move forward when you return.”

He nodded, and then paused. “Granger, were you serious about your offer to let other people stay? About your speech with the werewolves?”

“Of course. Do you know of any?”

“I might.”

Hermione gave him a look that she hoped communicated all of her compassion and sincerity. “I would be more than willing to lend the house. You will just need to help me convince Regulus. When you get back?”

Blaise nodded assertively and left.

* * *

To be continued...

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think? I know that the Hermione/Regulus pairing isn't as popular, but I think he might be just what she needs in this instance. Thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know if this has potential. I have waaaay too many ideas floating in my brain, and a tendency to jump around... if this is worth anything, let me know, and I will focus more of my efforts on keeping on tract. I plan to update my other works sometime this next week, but it's hard with an inconsistent muse. In any case, thank you for reading.


End file.
